


The Devil Is In The Details

by perceptivefics



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Humanstuck, M/M, Modern AU (sort of), POV Second Person, Past Character Death, Slow Burn, Trans Dualscar, fine it's technically crokri y'all caught me red handed lmao, nonbinary kankri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16122767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perceptivefics/pseuds/perceptivefics
Summary: They absolutely cannot stand one another when they first meet, but they have a lot more in common than they realize. It's 1994 in the state of California, and Dualscar may have just met his match in pretentious assholes. Unfortunately, his brother lives in the area, and Kankri has free room and board.





	1. [Dualscar]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trans Dualscar is what happens when Trans Cronus manages to make it past the trials of young adulthood, I have decided. And this fic is what happens when a crusty old jackass like said Dualscar happens to run into someone he likes. I'm probably going to have more to say about this later, but right now I'm between shifts and posting up what's edited so that there's a sneak preview of sorts. Do mind the tags, but as per my usual, additional warnings will also be posted in beginning notes chapter by chapter as appropriate.
> 
> Technically, I guess this is Crokri with an age gap, if you squint? I'm not gonna think about it too hard lmao

In a manner most unexpected, and from someone you never in a million years thought you would ever have an opportunity to meet, your outlook on the world - and on life in general - flips squarely on its head somewhere in your late 40's.

 

You meet him one thundering summer evening in a bar in 1994.

 

Because of course you do.

By one’s 40's, presumably, one has already had their whole life figured out. It’s what all the movies and books portray; what all responsible adults are supposed to live up to. To your credit, you  _ did  _ believe you’d already gone as far as you need to. Decades ago, you already knew that nothing would be handed to you on a silver platter, and not once did you expect that to change. Plans were made - meticulously. In part on how to better cope with a rotten world, and in part how to get exactly what you wanted. Piece by piece, people and places were discovered. Dots were connected. Where you had to go, what to earn, how you were going to get there, and fuck  _ anyone  _ who got in your way. Old name? Dead. Old family? Dead. Old house?  _ Extremely  _ dead. Not a single thought backwards ever even crossed your mind. Useless things were meant for discarding, and people who were dead-set on holding you back definitely fit the category. No time for reconsidering the finer points; there were places to go and goals to accomplish. Reassessing was not in the game plan.

 

It continued to be about as far from the game plan as you could possibly imagine until, on a fateful sunny day when you were feeling unusually chipper and cooperative, you thought to yourself:  _ Wonder how my little brother’s doing. _ It was the beginning of the end, looking back on it. Years of burying the past and not thinking twice about who or what was left behind all ruined because there just had to be that  _ one  _ family member who was  _ kind of  _ okay. The saddest part? Didn’t take a lot of effort at all to be “kind of okay.” Last time you were anywhere near Danny, he was, like, thirteen years old. But despite everything, there  _ is  _ the hope that maybe he turned out okay without you. There’s a chance for it, isn’t there?

 

You’re not one to deal in uncertainties, though. And that settles that. No real plans for the future, apart from turning the dial to a new decade in a couple of years - less of a plan and more of an inevitability, really. There’s no slowing down the hands of Father Time. So, sure. Why not try getting in touch with your baby bro?

 

It takes a little digging to find out where he lives - a lot can change, after all, past one’s thirteenth year of their life. However, lucky for you, baby Danny turns out to be nightmarishly meticulous in up-keeping his public records. With some tenacity, you discover not only where he was and where he  _ is,  _ but also where he works (in some lab, doing nerdy science-y stuff) and his marital status (single, which just might add a few more grays on top of your head yet). He lives somewhere in California; right on the coast. Conveniently, it turns out to be relatively close to the residence of  _ someone else  _ you’re due for visiting - probably. You’re pretty sure, based on your calculations. Either way, being in the middle of Fuck-All-Nowhere, Montana, yourself, the trip takes a bit of assessing. After pulling out your trustiest of travel maps and double-checking the address, the course is lovingly rendered in red marker with notes, just to prevent getting lost. And then you drive. The drive is long and mostly uneventful, which is the way it should be. Danny’s home address stays with you like a totem: scribbled on a torn-off strip of printer paper, folded twice, and stuck firmly inside your pocket. Road signs point you and your shitty, off-teal 1967 Chevy Impala helpfully down the path to the Sunshine State.

 

Being that it’s 1994, you are unaware that about 11 years from the present day, the exact make and model of your car will become known by millions the world over as one of the sexiest cars in all of fictional storytelling. It is written as such by way of being in close proximity to a pair of dysfunctionally co-dependent, yet oddly affectionate demon-hunting male siblings. Their Chevy Impala, however, is black - not a dull, sun-bleached mockery of a nondescript blueish green. One could barely call it teal at this point, to be honest. The fictional Impala is also significantly more polished than yours because it is the “baby” of one of the siblings, whereas for your part, you couldn’t give a shit what the old girl looks like as long as she still runs. If you knew that all you had to do in order to attract millions of thirsty young women and jealous boyfriends was slap on a new coat of paint and pretend that ghosts exist, you would feel more than a little robbed. Suffering through a few episodes of the show would almost decidedly be in your future if it would get you laid. And hey - if the lady wasn’t interested, there was always the above mentioned boyfriend. Even in this day and age, and in the future, surely a little homoerotic experience with a middle-aged man was up the alley of some lonely young bastard  _ somewhere  _ in the world.

 

Anyway.

 

You drive your piece of shit off-color Chevy Impala (which shall be turning no heads anytime soon and that’s the way it will fucking continue, thank you very much) all the way down to just outside the beach town in California written on the sacred paper in your back pocket. In all, striking a delicate combination of not rushing and not wasting precious time, just getting to that motel near the outskirts of town took three or four days, from driving six to eight hours at a time and accounting for rest. There was no trouble with the cops either, because you are a simple law-abiding citizen with a car no uglier than the thousands of other cars traveling the interstate. Besides that, your preference for what kind of laws to break lies not within driving dangerously over the speed limit.

 

In old age, sleeping in is a luxury to be taken advantage of at every opportunity: you don’t wake up after checking in until well past noon the next day. After meandering into the bathroom adjacent the tiny room you’re staying in, it’s time to casually fuss through the morning routine. A touch more care is put into your beard and hair than the usual; however, neither of these things require very much to begin with. There’s a certain amount of pride in how one presents themselves, and you are no exception, especially when meeting people you like. Your clothes are nice enough - even with your fucked-up, ugly old mug, many have said you have a certain rugged charm in the right kind of light. Everything is put together enough for a surprise hello to someone you haven’t seen since they were a kid; no need for any excessive fancifulness. By calculations, even with the possibility of getting a little turned around, you should expect to be on your brother’s doorstep by late evening. There just has to be the trick of not getting hopelessly lost or distracted.

 

So you, uh,  _ might  _ show up in the middle of dinner. To be fair, if the little shit is still single, there’s nothing altogether too important being interrupted, no? And on the off chance that he somehow got himself a date, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve dramatically disrupted domestic evening proceedings. Maybe Danny just needs a little leg up in the dating department. A few lessons to impart from his dear older sibling who he hasn’t seen in over thirty years. It could be a bonding moment. Maybe.

 

Checking to be sure everything is in place, nothing from your belongings seems stolen, which is good. After grabbing something quick from the motel’s lunch line, you head out and pay at the front desk with credit.  The young woman working the books squints at the name on your card ( _ goddammit _ ) as she takes down the information, pausing to assess. Tension mounts in your shoulders as you gauge her reaction. She is, after all, a different lady from the one who checked you in last night.

 

“What a pretty name,” she remarks, like a bone marrow needle straight to the spine. Nothing to do but await the possibility of a confrontation. Instead, however, all she does is look up at you and smile. Thank God. “What are you, Italian?”

 

Slight relaxation. Minimal release of anxiety. A tense smile which you hope reads as something natural to a stranger when you lie. “Armenian.” It’s total bullshit - the first fancy-sounding thing off the top of your head that could possibly fit someone with a comparable build and complexion. More importantly, it’s total bullshit that the clerk eats up with her lips puckered into a soft “oh” of interest as she gives you a once-over...and effortlessly runs the card. Armenian, you surely are not. But you are exactly her type of attractive man passing through on the way to greater things; which can be thoroughly exploited if it means no more questions.

 

She returns the little rectangle of plastic in time, and you reach out, making sure to  _ accidentally  _ brush the tips of your fingers against her knuckles. Eye contact. Smile a winning smile. Wink meaningfully. “Thank you, my dear,” you say, smooth as silver. A tiger’s purr. “You have a lovely day.” The clerk’s dusty pink cheeks and the tune of her giggling as you leave assures that the ruse is a success; by her lunch break, you’re almost certain she won’t even remember the ugly little name on the card.


	2. PART I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CW: alcohol, implied alcoholism; misgendering; Dualscar generally being a creepy old prick,** but it doesn't go anywhere.
> 
> Did you know that $50 in 1994 had the same buying power as damn near twice that much in today's dollar value? Neither did I! But now I do, and it makes me so very sad.
> 
> I tried reeeeeal hard to keep track of the passage of time, guys. I truly truly did.

It’s late afternoon once you reach the thicker parts of the population. Brief reprieves from extended car time are granted in the form of stopping at one restaurant for food, when you’re feeling peckish, and refueling at a gas station as needed. Miraculously, you refrain from purchasing alcohol at both locations, although you’re knocking back painkillers to self-medicate the headache. The secret whiskey flask in the glovebox is empty, too, and for good reason – you have no way of knowing how vigilant those boys in blue are about writing up a DUI in a town you’ve never visited. A slight wrinkle in the plan, however: by the time you’ve reached the gas station, you realize you’ve been driving in circles for a bit, and realize something is slightly amiss with the pre-charted course.

 

You pause at the cash register just long enough to ask the person on the other end of the counter if they might be able to help you. After ten minutes of a dull-eyed man staring listlessly through you, providing confusing instructions while regarding the map in slack-jawed with wonder, you thank him for the help and make a quick escape. May as well try to figure it out solo. This – unfortunately – also turns out to be a terrible mistake. Theoretically, there should have been a street to turn left onto, but the street in question turned out to be a narrow dead end leading back to a collection of houses, and it has no exit onto any of the other main thoroughfares in town. So either you’re reading it wrong, or the map is outdated. Either way, now you’re ten different kinds of turned around. The maps are thrown irritably into the back seat of the Impala.

 

Late afternoon turns into dusk, with the hours available to make it on time to Eridan’s shrinking by the minute. In trying to find your way back to where you got lost, you are now exactly where you didn’t want to be: in the middle of town with nary a goddamn clue which street goes where. Dark clouds that have been hanging around all day long – first in the skyline, then directly over town as you drove in – start to rumble heavily as the roads all blend together. Driving around aimlessly has now become a game of sightseeing in an effort to avoid getting pulled over for road rage; It is accompanied by an effort in trying not to pay attention to the heads that turn whenever you drive by. It’s probably just the sad state of the Impala that attracts them, but the paranoia persists all the same. Parts of this place remind you a little bit of home; you’re not altogether enthused, but it’s easy to see the appeal for someone like Dan. The town _seems_ nice, to be fair – quaint, even. You guess.

 

Then the thunder breaks, the storm following fast behind. Sparse droplets turn to a torrential downpour in a matter of seconds. The late summer rain coats the streets while you sit at a red light, lost in your own thoughts. The light blinks green. You decide it might be a good time to temporarily give up pursuit in favor of rest; wasting the gas won’t bring you any closer to the residential stretches. Maybe someone can steer you right when you stop for some grub.

 

Eventually, a parking spot outside a colorfully local establishment seems as safe as any other. The interest lies less in what kind of place it is and more in the fact that they are freely advertising alcohol on the chalkboard sitting on the sidewalk by the door. Despite the raging alcoholic headache and the risk of sweating through your shirt, you’ve behaved well enough until this point; now, with all the locals in their short shorts and summer dresses and tank tops ducking into restaurants and shops, you feel you’re overdue for a reward. (In Montana, it would be totally normal to blaze a path for eighty miles, blackout drunk, to wherever the wind takes you. But this isn’t Montana, and there are way more people around than you care to account for.)

 

Park the car, lock it up, stuff the keys in your pocket. Right next to Danny’s address. It’s a half-hearted reminder that _eventually,_ there will be more driving, and to perhaps reel it in a little with the whole _drinking like a fish_ habit you’ve picked up over the years.

 

Hurrying into the bar and out of the rain immediately swallows you up in the noise of dozens of chatting mouths and clinking silverware, combined with the ambient backdrop of a guitar riff from an unfamiliar song, and a boxy little television on the bar countertop that is stuck on the sports station. Cut off from the nasty weather outside, you immediately make eyes at an open barstool screaming your name. Then you sit down, and make an even more meaningful expression at the young brunette behind the counter. After passing another customer their order, she slides down your way, stops right in front of you, and smiles. “Hi, sir! What can I get you?”

 

“Any bourbon you got,” you reply. “If you have it. Neat.”

 

She straightens up, speaking a little too clearly over the din of the bar, enthusiasm all but knocking you over. “Sure! Be back in a sec.”

 

You turn your attention to whatever they have playing on the T.V. sitting at the right end of the bar from your seat, chin in hand. The bartender brings the promised bourbon, along with a menu, for browsing during consumption. There’s significantly more seafood than you’re used to seeing, so it takes a while; eventually, though, there’s just no beating the taste of a huge basket of chili fries. After that, time passes, with everyone but the young lady being none the wiser to your presence so far as you know. It’s probably just as well: almost everyone in this place is either barely legal to drink or still in college. There are maybe, at a guess, eight or nine people over the age of forty? So. That’s certainly where you’re at right now. You are the ugly, out-of-town crypt keeper firmly parked at the bar. That’s fine, though. Young folk tend to not prefer associating with anyone over the age of 35 unless they’re incredibly strange or incredibly lonely – or if money is involved. In your personal experience. The “rogueish charm” people have claimed follows you around in proper lighting, in local dive spots like this, turns into...a certain _je ne sais quois_ that says _don’t fuck with me._ Which always works perfectly when you want to be alone.

 

Movement ghosts your peripheral on the left. Such a catch generally wouldn’t snag attention, except it’s someone who you thought you saw looking right at you before they approached. A head turn was in order to avoid prolonged eye contact. It’s precaution! It could be some nutso with a knife. Anyone in this bar, in fact, could be a nutso with a knife. It turns out that avoiding public confrontation is significantly easier when you imagine everyone is always ready to stab you in the back at any given moment.

 

“Hi there.”

 

Of course. _Of course_ your worst fears are realized. Forced social interaction.

 

How the tides of fortune screw you sideways yet again.

 

At first, you don’t respond. Eyes on the television, just waiting for the bartender to come around again. If you keep at it long enough, they might go away. Take the hint, buddy.

 

 _“A hem._ _”_ Ah, such an obnoxious sound. A universal beacon of _“I demanded your time and you will provide it to me”_ if you’ve ever heard it. Still, nothing that can’t be mitigated by a particularly surly individual, with a bit of tenacity. Both of which are in your possession in _spades._

 

In time, a labored sigh cuts through the noise; you smirk to nobody at all, gulping down the rest of your glass, thinking this particular hurdle officially jumped.

 

“Excuse me, ma’am?” Asks the same voice from before. _Young,_ you realize, now that they’re speaking more than a couple words at a time.

 

The brunette responds in a free moment: “Yes, ma’am?”

 

“Mmm... _sir._ ”

 

“Oh,” she says, obviously unsure what to do with that. He breezes right over it. “Could we, um...” a pause, before: “Could you pour him another of whatever he was having?”

 

Son of a bitch.

 

“Anything for you, uh... _sir?”_

 

Another short hesitation, and you think maybe, perhaps, if you are _inexorably lucky,_ he’ll forget what he was trying to do. Any second now. He will be even less smooth than he is obviously trying and failing to be, and you can wait out the rest of the thunderstorm in peace, watching this shitty sports channel playing a sport you honestly don’t even like.

 

“I’ll...I’ll have the same thing, please.”

 

 _Christ._ Okay. New plan: you’ve got time to spare, right? Enough to save this kid from himself, and the obvious train wreck he is clearly hurtling himself into. Just laying his whole body out there on the tracks, begging to be run over. You know how to pick a guy up in a bar; you’ve done it hundreds of times. Less so in recent years, but the principles are still the same, and. This poor guy? Not hitting any of ‘em. At all.

 

It’s turning around to finally take a look at the guy that stops you. A genuine double-take is involved, because, _wow._ Holy shit. Now there’s some genuine interest here, because not only is he young, but he’s _cute as hell._ A whole five feet and four inches (only a little shorter than you, _nice_ ) of dark skin and cropped black hair: shaved on the sides, fluffy on the top, swept to one side. He’s, what, Native? Indian? Some mix or another? You’re not sure, just – definitely dark-skinned. A number of piercings: three around the mouth and several in each ear. Dressed in leather head to toe. The belt and shoulders of his jacket are studded with spikes; his boots are chunky and industrial as all hell. Possibly steel-toed. The point is, they could kill a man with a swift kick in the balls. He’s got _dark_ freckles, and he has hips, and _thighs,_ and _ohhhh_ if that isn’t just your _type._ You would love to find out if the freckles are just on his face or if he’s got them in other places under all those clothes. Warm, sharp, reddish-brown eyes lock with yours when you’re done raking over the visage of beauty sitting beside you.

 

That previous comment about the universe? _More_ than willing to rescind it if this tiny piece of ass is trying to hit on you. It is as adorable as it is ineffective and twice as fortuitous. You could play along, you think. You’re _way_ overdue for a good fuck anyway, no strings attached. It could be just the ticket to have a little extra courage before walking up to your brother for a reunion.

 

He did, however, recoil slightly when the two of you were finally face to face. To be fair, you do look kind of like you just got spat out the wrong end of a wood chipper. But there’s charm and experience on your side. A friendly, somewhat teasing smile, and the damage control begins – an easy lead into the process of operation Convince Young Hottie To Follow You Somewhere Private.

 

“You sure you wanna do that?”

 

He blinks, distracted. “I’m sorry?”

 

You wiggle your glass, fingertips pressed to the rim. “It’s bourbon,” you explain, as the bartender has already gone off to fetch said bourbon for a refill. You speak with the absolute confidence of someone who knows for a fact that this kid has _probably_ never touched a bourbon in his life, though he seems insulted by the implication. “So?”

 

“So, you don’t look like the bourbon type.”

 

Both glasses are already in front of you by the time he answers: he with his serving clutched (like, really, just, _clutched_ ) between his hands, you with your refill. It sits untouched for the time being, as patient as you are. “And what type do you take me for, sir?”

 

Well, you’ve had less capable one-night stands. So social chatter in a bar isn’t his strong suit; at least he’s trying. It’s sweet to watch him make the attempt, really.

 

“I dunno, prob’ly somethin’ _fruity,”_ you say. Crude and politically incorrect, but. It’s a goddamn bar, and you’ve never won any awards for manners. All that’s needed is for this kiddo to pick up what you’re putting down.

 

The young man’s facial expression tenses for a moment. He looks down at himself, scoffs, and picks at the edge of his jacket. “Does this say I like fancy drinks to you?”

 

Ohhh, God, he’s _avoiding_ using the word because he was so _offended_ by it. He’s...he’s _adorable._ Hey, universe, can you take him for a spin? _Please,_ to any God that might be listening, let him let you teach him... _so many manners_ of filthy things. “They do come in all kinds of flavors,” you point out. “Recipes might be the same at every damn bar in the country, but sometimes you find little surprises. Plus, you’re the one comin’ up an’ talkin’ to a guy that definitely knows his alcohol.”

 

“Well,” he quips back after a thought, “you don’t know. “Maybe I like bourbon.”

 

HA!! _Okay._ You chuckle audibly. It’s hard to tell if he’s picking up; either he’s talking about the taste of bourbon, or a taste in older men. “Sure you do.”

 

“I’m just saying, I could surprise you.”

 

An arched eyebrow to match this kid’s sassy tone. “Bourbon’s old.” You reply, “And strong. Doesn’t exactly go down like a Cosmo, if you know what I mean.”

 

He makes another sour expression. “How long do you intend to uphold this ruse of offensive euphemisms for personal preferences before we make our introductions?”

 

Oh! _Okay._

 

So. Two things. One: _definitely_ knew what you were swingin’ at, no question. Two: words. Just...so many words. Thankfully you’re not quite drunk enough to be incapable of following the bread crumbs, but fact remains: _highly_ unexpected. If you weren’t into him before, at the very least, you are now certainly intrigued. What _is_ that flavor of intellectual high-brow bullshit doing looking like that, and in this bar?

 

He leans toward you with a meaningful stare, in the absence of your actually remembering to answer. “I’m asking if you plan on continuing your little game of Mad Libs instead of asking my name,” he provides. Which is...uh, probably, the simpler version? Could he call it simpler?

 

“Fine, fine.” You raise your glass at him. “I see you chase a mouthful of that medicine you ordered, I’ll ask you anything you want, kid.”

 

His mouth pulls at the corners into something of a sneer. “I’m hardly a kid.” He grumbles, except he’s eyeing the lowball full of bourbon like it’s got teeth and sentience. Still, he takes to the challenge like a champ, from what one could claim – based on his weirdo personality. It’s a few seconds, but eventually, he tips the glass against his lips.

 

The _second_ it touches his tongue, his face scrunches up. He clearly struggles to drink what he’s taken in. You laugh as you watch, low and deep. The kid slams his glass down and coughs after swallowing.

 

 _“Ugh!_ God!!”

 

You tease him, because why the fuck wouldn’t you after a display like that? “Thought you said you liked bourbon.”

 

“It’s _repulsive!”_ He cries.

 

You smirk, and casually gulp down _everything_ that’s in your glass, making sure he sees it happening before you casually reach over and grip the top of his barely-touched drink. You pull it across the bar to claim ownership over its contents. He doesn’t stop you. “How about I get you something you might actually like?”

 

His expression is totally soured! What a _brat._ He crosses his arms on top of the bar and sighs deeply. “Fine,” he agrees. “As long as it’s not strong.”

 

Awww, what a shame. The only way he could possibly be more adorable is if he were a few degrees past tipsy. You can work with it, though. After calling back the young lady and a slight apology, you order something for him that is going to arrive in a tall glass and is mostly seltzer. Figure it’ll be good enough for him. Better than the bourbon, anyway.

 

“So.” You say, not one to go back on your promises. “Your name?”

 

He looks up, startled. Did he not think you were going to follow through?

 

“What? Oh.” He starts to reach over like he wants to shake your hand, and then stops. _Something_ happens with his arm before he just kind of...tucks his hand away again with a shrug, and flicks his hair, and smiles at you instead. He’s...trying to put himself on display, maybe? Honestly, what a treat. Not that he has to try so hard. “I’m Kankri.”

 

Kankri. _Cute._

 

Your lips curl up in a slow smirk as you sip from your third glass. You give him the name that’s fit you like a glove since you were sixteen years old. “Cronus.”

 

“Well,” says Kankri, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cronus.”

 

God, look at this kid, trying to chat like you’re sipping cocktails at a scholar’s convention in the middle of a _sports bar._ “You really don’t get out much, do you?” – Hey, it’s been on your mind, and both your names are out on the table. He’s already expressed he doesn’t like _euphemisms._ No point beating around the bush.

 

But Kankri – as it turns out – is a difficult duck to please, surprise surprise. His reply is almost as insulted as he was by the word “fruity.” He stares back, expression slightly incredulous. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“I’m sayin’, it don’t seem like you’re the kind who gets out and around in a lot of bars.”

 

Kankri’s drink arrives, and he holds it just as tight as the first one, squinting at it a moment before taking a tentative sip. It’s good enough that he decides not to ask for a different one; which, really, is all you’re looking for.

 

“I’ve been to bars.” He says. Like that’s supposed to save him. It doesn’t.

 

“Really,” you drawl. “How many?”

 

Dead silence. Kankri fidgets with the glass. The anticipation is killing you.

 

“You know,” he claims, “a few.”

 

He is as terrible at lying as he is at drinking. “ _Just_ a few?” The expectation being that Kankri is at least going to try and puff up the fib a little, but no – instead, there is full-on deflation, with a huff and a roll of his eyes. “ _Two,_ but I’ve been at least five times.”

 

Your instincts are torn between horror at a kid Kankri’s age who has never frequented their local bars, and an _incredibly_ pleasant bus trip, right down the avenue of being the lucky old bastard tasked with finding out _what else_ he doesn’t know. “Each?”

 

The following awkward pause does something to your impulse control. It’s definitely “total” – five times, _total._ And _God,_ do you want to go right into the part where you get to be a smooth motherfucker and make a cute boy blush, but. Maybe slow that roll a little bit. This kind of innocence is a double-edged sword when it comes to the dating pool, and you have no back-up plan if things turn south.

 

“Look, not that I’m judging or anything, but uh...only reason I’m curious is ‘cause, from where I’m sitting, you’re giving off a lot of different signals.”

 

He looks up at you, like a tiny Bambi caught in a pair of headlights, brow furrowed. “I’m...afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Poor, sweet little dear. “You know. With the...” you gesture to him, up and down. He takes another careful sip of his drink. “You clearly don’t go here much, by your own admission. You look like you bought half your shit at that Hot Topic store, or whatever, but you talk like all you do is sit inside and read books.”

 

“...I still don’t follow.”

 

The pout on his face says otherwise. He doesn’t seem to know that. “Most folks that dress the way you dress spend less time at home and more time, like...outside. And in bars.”

 

He tips his head to one side, giving you a squint. “Do you often get this judgmental when you’re approached for prospective company?”

 

Your mouth sets into a line. Some reconsideration is surfacing; but the conversation hasn’t been that long, you figure. Maybe he’s just being this way because he’s young and nervous and, what the hell, you don’t know how he reacts when he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. Something about his tone rubs wrong, though: full of self-importance and flattery, like he knows something you don’t, even ignoring the fact that he’s easily a couple decades younger. Maybe it’s just a knee-jerk response on your part? Doubtful. Still, this is the first cute kid that looks legal and is offering his time on a silver platter, and _dammit,_ you are but a simple mortal fool. With _deeply_ carnal desires. There is a willingness to call that Strike One and try a different batting angle – much as the little voice in the back of your head says it might not work.

 

“I’m not being judgmental. Like I said, I’m just curious.”

 

Kankri says nothing; just stares at you expectantly. _Great._

 

Breathe, Cronus. Three strikes rule. We’re on Strike Two.

 

Swallowing another mouthful of alcohol, you ask: “Okay, kiddo. Would you feel better if we went at this, like, 21 Questions style?”

 

Kankri opens his mouth, then closes it again, now a bit annoyed. “I would feel better if you would make an effort to use my name, for starters.”

 

Now filing a formal complaint with the powers that be! Who let the Poindexter off his house leash? This is _not_ how you pick up a guy in a bar!

 

 _“Kankri,”_ you try, the name sticking in an unpleasant tone, magic of the syllables warped by its owner’s sour attitude. “In the spirit of two complete goddamn strangers getting to know each other better, _would you_ be more comfortable with 21 Questions.” (Swear to fuck, if he nitpicks _one_ more time...)

 

He has the audacity to look like he needs time to _mull it over_ before responding. Never in your life has such a simple question led to something so agonizing. “I suppose so?”

 

Thank fuck.

 

“But you’re not allowed to ask questions about anything strictly personal.”

 

You can _feel_ your face falling. “Personal meaning...?”

 

“Oh, you know.” Kankri waves his hand dismissively. “Anything, um, about where we live, or our families. Sexual experience. That kind of thing.”

 

And...there went all possible motivation you had for scoring a good time. Nope! No. Not worth it. Not in a million years! You would rather die celibate than try another shot at this fake-ass little baby bookworm playing dress up in grungy clothing. Surely there are plenty of other fish in the sea – hell, you’re not only guessing, you can goddamn well _guarantee_ that is the case. “Actually, you know what, I changed my mind.” You declare, “So I think I’ll go back to what I was doing. Which is minding my damn business.”

 

“Whuh – Wait.” Kankri’s tone grows belligerent. “Wait. No. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

 

 _Yeah, no shit, Sherlock!_ He doesn’t even earn a head-turn for that line. You just stare ahead and drink. “And what’s your figure for how it’s s’posed to go?”

 

“We’ve – we’ve purchased drinks for one another and exchanged mutual greetings.” He stated, with all the authority in the world, “It was my impression this was supposed to, um, to lead to further conversation. Maybe even leaving the bar? Not that I would want to leave the bar without notice. I would have to tell my friends –”

 

Oh God. Oh _God._ Oh, no sir, not with your current temperament. You tuned _that_ noise out after the word “impression.” Another refill from the pretty brunette behind the bar can’t come fast enough at this point. He just...is he – ? _Yep._ He’s still going. Wow, listen to him, just buzzing right along. Is he proud of himself yet? Proud of how _obnoxious_ he is?

 

 _“Excuse_ me!”

 

You answer him with a monosyllabic grunt. He scoffs indignantly. “You are incredibly rude!”

 

“And you’re incredibly annoying,” you say. All interest has still flown right out the window, and is still dwindling. At this point, you couldn’t even get _paid_ to screw this kid. Which, you feel – coming from you of all people – is quite the statement.

 

But then! _But then._ But then Kankri – this little fucking brat named Kankri, in all his infinite wisdom – dares to imply something that will _certainly_ not stand. Not so long as you’ve heard it with your own two ears.

 

“You know, if you weren’t interested from the beginning, you could have just said so!”

 

You turn, looking right at him, hoping he can _feel_ the heat from your glare and the weight of the growl in your chest. “I bought you a drink, kid. I was bein’ friendly. If I ain’t interested no more, that ain’t anyone’s fault but your own. You start on with that snobby crap like you just did, I guarantee _nobody’s_ gonna wanna come within a hundred feet of you. I’ve picked up chicks twice as dull as you and I was _still_ more into them than _this.”_

 

He bristles, and Lord help you, when he’s mad, Kankri apparently gets _very_ shrill. “I am not a chick!”

 

You shrug. “Didn’t say you were, don’t really care.”

 

His spike-studded shoulders square up, along with his jawline. The scowl he was wearing morphs sharply into a snarl; The barstool scoots out with a heavy scratch of metal on wood as he stands up, aggressively planting his feet.

 

“Fuck you,” he spits.

 

You raise your glass as if in a toast and casually reply: “You know, I was thinkin’ about it.”

 

That _really_ gets under his skin. Oh, the _fire_ in his eyes! That is the angriest you’ve seen him yet, and you’ve only talked for what, five minutes? You _have_ to laugh; it almost makes up for all the pain of dealing with him in the first place. What a fake little shit. Kankri makes the most indignant noise you’ve ever heard and looks like he wants to slap you across the face. Instead, he walks away to the sound of your cackling. You swear you saw a blush. “Not anymore, though, obviously!”

 

Once he’s out of your hair, drink abandoned, you grab it and polish it off – not like he’s going to come back and get it. Prissy-ass little prude what that doesn’t drink. It’s not exactly your preference, but it’s consumable and you paid for it. Like hell it’s going to go to waste. In the next free moment the bar lady has, you immediately order a gin and tonic (just to switch it up), order another serving of chili fries, and stare angrily at the television. Doesn’t even matter now that it won’t hold your attention. Anything is better than the torturous conversation you were just forced to uphold.

 

Relief is, however, incredibly short-lived. Maybe twenty minutes, tops. If that.

 

It takes quite a while for the escalating ruckus in the bar to cut through the loud chatter of the other patrons; a worried voice keeps cropping up in different sections on the floor, asking if anyone has seen a few someones or another, but it’s not like it’s any of your business. So you ignore it – right up until “worried” sounds more like “frantic,” and directly at the bar, with the bartender trying to console whoever the hell is losing their mind.

 

“Ma’am,” says the voice, “I’m so sorry. Are you sure that you didn’t see where they went?”

 

“I’m afraid not, honey,” she replies.

 

“We came in as a group,” says the person. Who is... _familiarly_ shrill.

 

Oh no.

 

“It was me, a large young asian woman, and a black man and woman, about my age, all dressed a bit like this.”

 

His volume finally catches your attention more than anything else, so you turn your head, intent on telling him to keep his goddamn voice down. Public freak-outs are the absolute worst. They make your hair stand on end and your stomach turn to stones. What stops you from following through is when you look at him, and. It’s not like he is immediately exonerated from what a snippy little brat he was a short while ago, but his eyebrows are pressed together and he is clenching the edge of the countertop like it’s his only lifeline, rust-flecked eyes _wild_ with barely-contained panic. If nothing else, it’s a quick stopgap to encourage reassessing the whole situation. Lashing out at _that_ isn’t going to make him shut up any quicker.

 

The barkeep, for her part, seems at a loss. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see anything.”

 

“It’s _not –”_ Kankri smacks the edge of the bar, teeth clenched, then flips his palms up in exasperation. “You know what? Never mind. What time is it?”

 

 _Large asian woman, one black man, one black woman._ You turn and scan the whole place, looking for any gaggle of young brats that might fit that description. Two or three asians and plenty of black people, but none that fit that particular mix. Certainly not while also dressed in leather and spikes. By the time you’ve finished up, the bartender has given Kankri the hour and he is pushing his fingers back through the wavy mop of black hair on top of his head. His eyes are cast down. It’s obvious to anyone turning their head that he is incredibly upset. It shouldn’t be any of your business, either, and yet here you are, rubbernecking into his business, and you can’t even muster enough superiority to feel smug about the fact that his friends abandoned him in the middle of the bar.

 

“Are you gonna be alright?” Asks the bartender. “Did you drive here?”

 

Kankri squeezes his eyes shut; possibly doing a mental run through of all the things he did wrong up to this point. “No, I did _not,”_ he grumbles.

 

“Do you need to use the phone?”

 

He sighs heavily; it does nothing for his nerves. “I would appreciate it.”

 

Just in case you missed something, you check the bar again. Kankri circles behind the bar in the meanwhile to use the corded phone on the wall to dial...probably one of the people who left him here. He cradles the phone in both hands with his back to the establishment – one by the top of it, the other cupping the receiver. He looks like a fucking school marm that missed the bus on a field trip. You try not to acknowledge what’s happening or to pay attention, but it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion. It’s all very, very sad.

 

“Meenah?” He chirps, anxiously gripping the phone until dark knuckles blanch. “Where the hell are you? I turned around and you all weren’t at the booth.” He switches after a second or so to twisting the coiled cord back and forth between his thumb and forefinger and looks like he’s trying very hard not to pace. “Well, could you maybe come _back,_ please? You were the one who drove tonight, I need –”

 

You watch him as your chili fries dwindle away along with your fifth drink. How Kankri straightens his spine and turns this way and that. Per what is apparently his usual, it’s really not very difficult to hear him over the noise. “I – _what?_ Have you lost your mind? Do you know what time it is?!” Another short pause, and then a _very_ upset growl: “That was _your_ idea, and it was a _stupid_ one, I’ll have you know! I will not shoulder the blame for – Meen – what?! No! Don’t be preposterous that is so _irresponsible_ could you please just – no, no no no Meenah _don’t you dare hang up –_ ”

 

Annnd Meenah definitely hung up on him, given the way Kankri gawked at the phone before slamming it onto the cradle again, rubbing over his face with both hands. The bartender approached him with caution, gently tapping his shoulder.

 

“You said your friends were the two black kids and the chubby asian in the spikes and the chains?”

 

Another sigh from Kankri. It may as well be his trademark, at this point. “Yes.”

 

The bartender’s face falls and _girl,_ you think. Do not _tell him_ that the story gets worse. If the story gets worse, you will be forced to have some genuine sympathy, which means  bidding a fond and tearful farewell to the privilege of drinking. You were having such a nice time slamming back that sweet 40 proof and eating your chili fries and it would really... _really_ suck to see it all go.

 

“So, I’m sorry to say this, but I just heard from one of our servers, and it...looks like they didn’t. Pay their tab.”

 

Kankri looks up and turns his head, looking like his soul has departed to another dimension. “...You’re joking.”

 

“I’m...not.”

 

Kankri’s expression is indescribably hollow. “...How much is the tab...”

 

“It’s $49.32...”

 

“I-!” He stammers back, and laughs – as you imagine – like a man abandoned in an unfamiliar bar with a tab for four people _might_ laugh. “I’m – I’m – I. I don’t...I don’t _have_...$49...I could cover for. Eight? Ten?”

 

Not gonna work, kid. She ain’t getting paid enough for a whole table to skip out.

 

“Uhhm...so, sadly, with the ten, that still leaves $39.32.” (See?)

 

Kankri blubs his mouth open and shut for a few seconds like a fish out of water. When he finally replies, his voice is small and frightened. “...But I don’t have that much money...”

 

Goddamn. It’s the saddest damn thing you’ve heard all day. Fuck you too, Jiminy Cricket.

 

It’s your turn to sigh, eyes rolling up as you pull out your wallet and rap on the bar with your palm. “I got it, miss.” Your voice carries almost as much as Kankri’s, thankfully. Both sets of eyes are on you, green dollar bills being collected one-by-one. The kid undoubtedly has a dumbstruck look on his face, and the bartender is probably just focused on the money.

 

“The $40?” She asks.

 

“No, the whole damn thing,” you reply. “What was it, $50?”

 

“Yeah, about $50,” she repeats.

 

“Wait –” Kankri stutters. You ignore him.

 

“Here.” Enough Jacksons to cover the Round Table of Assholes, plus your own food and drink, _plus plenty of extra,_ right on top of the bar. Stacked and ready for counting. For added measure, they are accompanied by three words you know the young barkeep won’t argue with: “Keep the change.”

 

She grabs them all up. Counts them. Smiles brightly. “Anything else for you tonight?”

 

“But wait a minute!”

 

Speaking over the fussy brat, you flick one hand at the young lady. “Nyeh. Enjoy your tip.”

 

She seems, in fact, quite intent on doing so - and with that taken care of, the rest of the bar quiets down, too. And Kankri is now standing beside you and glaring with the heat of a thousand suns, which is _quite_ a reaction, given what you just did for him out of the goodness of your shriveled black heart.

 

You look over, meeting his eyes. It’s like staring down a kicked puppy. “Yes?”

 

“What?” He demands.

 

Your eyebrows go up. “Really? I pay for you and all your friends and I don’t even get a thank you?”

 

He folds his arms across his chest and scowls, standing near the bar, but not sitting. Certainly not near _you,_ it seems. “I could have taken care of it.”

 

This...fucking kid. Alright. “Really. How.”

 

“I don’t know!” Kankri flicks his arms up, then goes back to fidgeting with the buttons on his jacket. “Somehow. I could have covered it _somehow._ I certainly don’t need any favors from strange older men.”

 

"Funny you should say that, since you were clearly trying to ask for one earlier."

 

His spine goes rigid and he shoots you a murderous look. “Oh, _screw you!_ It wasn’t my idea, alright?”

 

It wasn’t?

 

Wasn’t that just interesting - _God,_ what the hell. You and your nosy old self just can’t keep on keepin’ on without checking in on what other people are up to, huh? And how many times has that gotten your ass in the fire? And what have we learned, Cronus Ampora? After forty-plus years of the same bullshit again and again? Absolutely fucking nothing, it seems.

 

Back to damage control. Because really, even if you _did_ have the time to do something about it, this would hardly work out with Kankri pitching a fit at every turn. You arch an eyebrow and gesture to the shelves of alcohol, because the barkeep is somewhere tending to another customer. “Want me to go get her and tell her to gimme back the cash? Stiff you with that fifty-dollar bill like your buddies did? So you can _take care_ of it?”

 

His arms haven’t moved from in front of his chest this whole time. Kankri alternately picks at his buttons or fidgets with the leather covering his arms, and sneers. You gesture meaningfully again, and tip your head in his direction for an answer. He _will_ give one up, eventually.

 

And he does - if grudgingly. “...No. That isn’t necessary.”

 

“Well, then, _you’re fucking welcome.”_ You wave him on. “And now you’re free to go. Right? I assume you’re not gonna stay here the rest of the night.”

 

Kankri glares, responding with more of the silent treatment. You glare back. “What, not a fan of going home?”

 

“No _obviously_ not,” he snaps. “I do need to get home. I just…”

 

Some of the tension leaves him; resignation, it looks like. He slouches into the nearest bar seat, head in his hands. “I just...don’t know how. Meenah was supposed to be the one driving tonight. The closest bus route doesn’t take me close enough to home, and it’s dark, and I don’t have an umbrella for…” Kankri pauses. He rubs at his eyes. “Eugh. What am I doing telling _you?_ You don’t care. Unless I owe you something.”

 

Owe...hold up. Where did he get that? “Whoa, wait, what?”

 

Too late. Apparently that is the next thing Kankri has decided to focus on as he looks up. “For the bill. That’s how this works, right? Me being indebted to you through monetary favors?”

 

 _“Hang on!”_ Hands up in a stopping gesture, just to try and indicate to this kid somehow to slow the hell down. “I never said anything about you owing me shit! Christ, it’s like you sprang up from a fucking encyclopedia somewhere and someone just turned you loose! Just call it even for you trying to buy me the bourbon and forcing me to put up with your crap, alright?”

 

Kankri’s eyes flash. “I didn’t _force_ you to -”

 

You shush him with a sharp noise, teeth gnashed. “Not! Another bitchin’ word from you. You hear me?” The tip of your finger jabs the bar with each sentence following. “I paid your tab. You don’t owe me nothin’. You figure out your own way home.”

 

“I -!” He sputters at you, purses his lips. His nostrils flare and he starts to say something else, then...stops. If that isn’t the most...pathetic-looking face you’ve ever seen. Well, technically. You’ve seen faces more pathetic. Uglier, too. The silence stretches for a long while, ending when Kankri puffs a slow breath and _finally_ swallows his pride. “...Thank you. For paying the tab. You didn’t have to do that.”

 

It takes a little bit to calm down, after all that, but it happens in time. And...ehhh...well. He did use his manners. Honestly, things have already escalated this far. You can’t leave Kankri to his own devices in good conscience when he’s sitting there, looking like a lost dog, not having any idea of what to do. How could you? You’ve been there.

 

You _sigh_ and check your watch. A little after 8. Well...Danny won’t die if someone comes knocking down his door in the middle of the night. Not like he’s going to get up to much of anything. “Alternatively, I guess _I_ could drive you home.”

 

The sentence is dropped casually. The way Kankri reacts here is key. How desperate he is to take the help, that is.

 

“...What did you just say?”

 

Interest, at the very least. “You heard me,” you reply. “I said I could drive you home. You just gotta be able to gimme directions.”

 

Kankri balks at you, eyes wide. “Oh, _no._ Absolutely not.”

 

“And why not?” You challenge. “Anyone else in here you know that’s willing to not only pay for your friends, but give you a free ride home, too?”

 

He leans in, watching you with alarm, positively scandalized. “But - but how _drunk_ are you right now?” He whispers in horror.

 

A slight glance up, thoughtful. It takes a minute to count. “Four? Five drinks in? That ain’t really much.”

 

He stutters in shock. _“Oh?!_ And how much is too much?!”

 

You blink blearily, then wince. “...Not five drinks?”

 

Kankri makes a nervous noise. “It’s still too many to drive! I can’t consciously accept that offer for both our sakes! It would be horrendously irresponsible!”

 

You _groan._ “Kid -”

 

 _“Kankri!”_ He snarls. “I _gave_ you my name, dammit, the least you can do is address me with it! Or am I to start calling you _Grandpa_ or something else terribly demeaning?!”

 

“Hhhhnngh for God’s sake.” Muttering and palming your face, you give him a level glare. “Think about it this way. How many options do you have at this point? I can all but guarantee you, even with this much alcohol in me, I can pick up and go with no trouble. I’ve definitely driven on more and I’ve been fine.”

 

“Oh _have_ you!” Kankri exclaims. “On how much, exactly? What was your blood alcohol concentration?”

 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t fucking know, a lot, alright? But I didn’t _crash,_ or _die._ Clearly.”

 

“That is…” he says, stunned, “... _so_ irresponsible…”

 

...Okay. Time for a new plan. “Alright, look.” You stand up, adjusting your belt, pushing your hair out of your eyes. “I’m gonna go take a piss. I will _even_ take my time doing so. I’ll wash my hands with soap and everything like a good little boy. And when I come back, I’m going to take out my keys, and walk outside to that ugly-ass blue Impala in front.” You point to it - right at it. Kankri follows the direction you’re pointing, but honestly, it’s kind of hard to miss that kind of ride. “You can either walk out with me, and I’ll drive you home of my own free will. Or you can stay here and take your chances with the rest of the strangers in the bar. Take your pick, Kankri.”

 

He gets no time to ask any more questions. Lord knows, he’ll probably keep you from pissing for another hour if you let him. You make a beeline for the restroom and do exactly what you said you would do. Not that there’s a need to count the minutes or anything - just, uh, kind of prolong the amount of time spent cleaning up. Give him enough of an opportunity to _really think_ about how slim those pickings were. And then, once you’re done, walk right out, keys in hand. Make eye contact while passing the bar. Walk casually up to the door. It’ll be a sprint to get through the rain - it’s still pouring down hard - but there isn’t much to be done about that.

 

“You can really get me home in your current state?” He asks, standing next to you, in front of the door.

 

You try not to smile from triumph and walk out, so you’re under the awning instead. Kankri stands with you, huddled away from the rain. “Sure as shit I can.”

 

Kankri squints at the Impala, scrutinizing in silence until you lean over. “I am fully aware she looks like a piece of shit, but she runs just fine. Swear to God, Jesus, and Holy Mary.”

 

The bridge of his nose crinkles up. Kankri mutters, clearly regretting his life choices. “I suppose I don’t...technically have any other options…”

 

You puff out your chest, dripping with sarcasm. “You sure don’t! Let’s get in the damn car.”

 

The two of you sprint to the Impala, in the dark, in the rain. Kankri shrieks as his hair and clothes start to soak through and waits impatiently for his side to unlock, then jumps in after you at the first opportunity, like the sky is pouring down acid. He sits ramrod straight in the seat, buckling in. You turn the keys in the ignition.

 

“So, Kankri, where exactly am I taking you tonight?”

 

Kankri purses his lips, shuddering in the dark, then mutters his address aloud. You, being from out of town, have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. “And...how far is that, exactly?”

 

He makes a noise. “The other side of town?”

 

Fucking hell. More driving. Okay - okay. You’re committed to this. Can’t back out now. Breathe deep.

 

“It’s...actually almost into the next town over, technically speaking.”

 

 _Deeeeeeeep_ breaths. “You are _really_ doing me over here, kid.”

 

Kankri sighs in bitter acceptance. “Mother did enjoy her privacy. I can...I can get you there. Just…take a left out of the lot.”

 

“Got it.”

  
So you back out of the space. You drive to the parking lot exit and, after signaling, you streak safely out into the rain-soaked roads with Kankri in your passenger’s seat. God help you and your terrible, _terrible_ decision-making skills.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: heavy drinking, smoking**
> 
> They say some things inside a car.
> 
> [[ **The song on the radio when Dualscar gets mad.** ]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7K4v2_5KCPo)

As the Impala hits pavement, Kankri dutifully mutters which streets to take or where to turn, guiding you through the heavy rain out of the main business strips of town, and out onto another interstate - to cut down travel time. As the buildings are left behind, visible only from beyond the road barriers, he says to follow it until an exit for a certain street name. There are a few stop lights breaking up the monotony of the stretch until the interstate, but beyond that, once the bulk of the main town is behind you, there's little else but the scenery ahead. "Odds and ends" buildings whisk by in the distance along with the continuing bad weather: houses of all eras and sizes, all very clearly still lived-in. Above all, the drive is quiet - in fact, it is rather uncomfortably so.

 

At some point you switch on the heater at a mild setting, just to get the car warmed up and help with the fact that even just sprinting to safety ended with both of you half-drenched. Kankri sits in the passenger's seat, slouched, arms and ankles crossed with his body jammed right up against the door. He seems fully intent on putting as much distance between him and you as possible, and absolutely _does not_ want any kind of interaction. Which is fine, for a while; God knows, you recall from experience he can be a _mouthy_ little shit if something gets him going. But once it's been...oh, twenty minutes?...it becomes distressing. For no other reason apart from the fact that long drives are things which, to you, are _meant_ to be filled with conversation.

 

The consistent rhythm of the windshield wipers clearing the glass and low volume of the 1980s station on the radio are helpful, but not exactly good for keeping attention. It's still going to be a good while before you get to his house, and it can't be helpful for either of you to have a relationship - even a temporary one - based on caution and suspicion. Kankri may not fully trust you to behave, but the street goes both ways near as you’re concerned: heaven forbid something happens that doesn’t fit with the plan of getting him home. You’ve been given a taste of what you assume to be a Kankri-branded meltdown already. Experiencing a real one would be less than welcome; especially while alone with him in a confined space.

 

You take a slow breath. "So..." awkwardly, "you cozy?"

 

Kankri flicks his attention to you, clearly not expecting the concept of words. "Beg pardon?"

 

"You know – not too hot, too cold?"

 

He looks distrustingly to the dials on the dashboard for the air conditioning and heat, then shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest. "I’m fine, thank you."

 

Halts it just like that. You blink slowly. "...Mm'kay."

 

Man, there must be _something_ that this kid would feel comfortable discussing on a long drive. If nothing else, presumably the volume could be turned up on the radio, but...given his apparent personality thus far, you're honestly a little afraid of what might happen if he has different taste in music. The last thing this car needs is someone playing the backseat driver, trying to snatch the controls for the tunes.

 

“...So, you um, got anyone you’re goin’ home to?” You ask.

 

Kankri whips his head around, suddenly _very_ attentive of you and everything you do. The laser-like focus is shocking for a moment, and it must be asked why he’s suddenly so mindful, until you remember: oh yeah. You only met him maybe less than an hour ago. Right before asking him to put his full trust in a complete stranger so he could get home faster.

 

“Why?” He snaps. Yeah...that’s fair. You deserved that one.

 

“I dunno, ‘cause earlier you seemed like you were bankin’ on havin’ other places to be?” The question is posed cautiously, as unthreatening and non-invasive as one can manage. “You were gettin’ _real_ loud and panicky.”

 

“Anyone might get _loud_ and _panicky_ if they’ve been abandoned by their supposed friends.” Kankri growls, “Which is to say that my home life is absolutely none of your goddamn business.”

 

“Alright, alright!” You groan, shrugging dramatically, fingers flared away from the wheel briefly. “Was just askin’ a question, Jesus.” ( _Supposed,_ though – that word. That sticks with you.)

 

Kankri scoffs and, after a moment, pulls off his leather jacket in favor of bundling it up in a half-wet ball. He squeezes it like a flotation device, crushing it against his chest. “I find it very suspicious that you are suddenly taking interest in my personal business when we are away from the prying eyes and ears of a public space, just so you know.”

 

You sigh, already wondering the age-old childlike question of _are we there yet?_

“Well, that wasn’t my intention.”

 

“Well, that doesn’t make it any less suspicious.” He fires back, not even pausing to breathe.

 

“Okay, we have _established_ that I made an inappropriate query.” You remind him, mildly annoyed: “I have also established that I am _sorry_ for making it. You don’t need to jump down my throat.”

 

With the same familiar, snobby tone, Kankri proves you wrong once again by saying words that – somehow, _one cannot possibly imagine how_ – are even more obnoxious than the crap he was spouting in the bar: “Simply stating that an action or statement was unintentionally inappropriate does not equate to an apology. All that does is expose the fact that one was behaving in an inconsiderate manner which, I would argue, is possibly worse.”

 

 _Breathe, Cronus. Breathe deep,_ you say to yourself. Which – this must be stated – is not a joke. You are not one known for having an even-tempered disposition; however, the last thing on your list of Shit To Deal With Today is freaking out this bratty little shut-in by losing your goddamn mind. _Boy_ is it tempting, though.

 

“Guess I can’t argue with that,” you grunt. But you _could._ But you don’t _want_ to.

 

“No, I suppose you can’t.” The conviction with which he says it drives you batshit up the goddamn belfrey, but there’s no point in pursuing that avenue if the goal is everyone getting to bed in one piece tonight. Another uneasy, extended silence descends. The only difference now is that the atmosphere is _even more_ tense than it was when the car trip started. Kankri stares intently out the window, observing the rain for the way it wicks and pools across the glass, light and shadow occasionally scanning over his features whenever a street lamp whooshes by. Kankri is bouncing his knee up and down, the anxious rhythm a constant movement in the corner of your vision that you try to ignore.

 

Unfortunately, you fail miserably. “Could I make one request, maybe?”

 

Kankri leans back against the seat with a sigh. “That depends on what it is doesn’t it?”

 

Pretentious little... “D’you think you could possibly try to relax? I swear, I have zero interest in doing anything untoward.” In fact, the faster Kankri is out of the car, the better.

 

Kankri leers in return, then turns back to the window. He growls, “I _am_ relaxed.”

 

 _Lord,_ if this is how he acts when he’s _relaxed,_ you shudder to imagine what he’s like when he’s stressed. “Well, if that’s how you feel, I guess.”

 

“Yes, it _is_ how I feel, thank you very much.” Kankri gestures to the road. “Look, there’s just a bit longer before the turn. Once this is all said and done, neither of us has to see each other again, so I would very much prefer if we mind our own business.”

 

Hands-down, no questions asked, the pompous attitude this kid is carrying around is the thing setting your blood on fire and cutting through your breathing exercises. The sheer fucking audacity to continue acting like he's getting harassed, or was somehow forced at gun point to get in the car. No amount of Good Samaritan work is worth taking this much shit from someone less than half your age. “Are you always this uptight with people who are trying to be friendly with you?” You add, meaningfully, “Because if that’s true, it’s no fucking wonder your buddies ditched. They probably got tired of listening to your bullshit.”

 

Based on the reaction which follows, that _definitely_ hit a nerve. The interesting part is listening to him trying to fire back with some heat is like hearing a tiny dog yapping at someone’s heels. He can’t seem to settle on exactly how he wants to tell you off. _“Fuck_ y – ooh – go _fuck_ yourself!”

 

A slow smile curls over your lips. “I could do that,” you say. “But I do have a question about that. ’Bout how good d’you think your chances are of getting home from here on your own?”

 

Thick eyebrows crease together in confusion as Kankri still sits, glaring at you with the heat of a thousand suns. “...No different from my chances of getting there with your assistance. Why?”

 

“Because –” and here you tell him, _slowly,_ “– if you decide to keep up this shitty little attitude, I _will_ pull this car over and you _will_ be hoofin’ it yourself the rest of the night.”

 

He quiets down; gets dead silent, in fact. Which indicates at the very least – one can hope – that he is reassessing his options after that pretty little threat. “Thought so.” You say, continuing, “And hell, if you think I’m kidding, I’ll pull over _right now.”_

 

"It is pouring rain outside!" He exclaims. "I don't have an umbrella, or any other means of staying dry! And this isn't a residential road!"

 

"Well, kiddo, that sounds to me like a true holy trinity of _not my problem."_

When Kankri shoots back, he is rather perturbed. “So you’ve extended me a ride home, and now, what? You’ll take it away swift as it was given, no better than the people you maligned?”

 

“If you keep being an obnoxious piece of shit, I’m thinking _yes.”_

 

His arms go up in exasperation. “How is it fair to leave me with yet another impossible decision to make?!”

 

"Impossible!" One can hardly believe their ears! "What precisely was impossible about the decision 'take a ride being offered' versus 'take my chances with the bar'? I thought it sounded pretty clear the best choice was the one that didn't leave you stranded."

 

It sounds almost like Kankri is clenching his teeth when he responds. "I'm not going to say I'm _proud_ of how I ended up here," - and that is a dodgy answer if you've ever heard one - "but shit happened how it happened and I don't possess the power of time travel. It is extremely risky that I was forced to place my trust in the hands of a stranger. Ostensibly, I am in your capable hands until we reach my house, provided you aren’t planning to kidnap and murder me."

 

"Oh I'm a murderer now!"

 

With his throat tight, he snarls, "That is not what I said."

 

"Yeah, well, stating that something wasn't your intention only proves you were being an inconsiderate little bitch." You look over long enough for him to get the _full effect_ of just how absolutely petty you can be, before driving drunk requires re-centering your focus on the wet road. "Ain't that what you just said?"

 

His eyes flash with concentrated anger as he straightens up in his seat. "You are not using that argument correctly!"

 

"That sure sounds like something an inconsiderate little bitch would say." Technically you could probably make at least a slightly better argument, if you _really_ took the time for it. However, seeing the look of visceral indignation on Kankri's face makes the option "acting like an irritated high schooler" _infinitely_ more fun. Maybe a civil conversation is damn near impossible with this kid, but that doesn't mean it can't be entertaining. Does this make you a bully? Probably. But in all fairness, as has been stated...he's kind of a horrible brat.

 

A horrible brat who is, at present, tripping over his own tongue. "You...you... _you..."_

 

It's difficult not to sneer. "You, you, you, you..." is the mimicking taunt that leaves your lips. "You _what?_ You hate that I'm right?"

 

"What is wrong with you?!" He cries, and man does that elevated pitch carry more power in an enclosed space, "Are you _five?!"_

 

You make sure the tone is as snotty and factual as possible: "Almost fifty, actually."

 

Kankri is, by definition, now beside himself with fury. "Then why don't you act like it, for God's sake!"

 

"I would, but I don't take orders from _children."_

 

Flabberghasted, he shouts, "I am _in college!!"_

 

"Except we've just established that age has no reflection on maturity, by your oh-so-educated guess." You shrug.

 

A sharp, bitter scowl splits his features. Kankri practically slams himself against the door trying to make distance again. Oh, he is _seething._ And honestly? Fuck him, too.

 

“You know,” you say, tense as can be, “When this whole altercation started, I really was just trying to be nice.”

 

Kankri whips his head about to give you one last withering, infuriated look. “Oh, don’t be so self-congratulatory. You were probably thinking of all sorts of unseemly things to get up to since I approached you in the bar.”

 

A loud, stunned, extended laugh bursts from the pit of your chest. “Kid, at this point, the only way I’ll find you even remotely attractive again is if you’re either dead or a thousand miles away from me. Long-distance romance where I can sit in perfect bliss and never hear your screechy, condescending ass _ever_ again.”

 

If he protests that statement in any way, he doesn’t get an opportunity to express it. You reach forward, cranking up the tunes on the radio, effectively silencing him and his bullshit for the duration of the drive. And if he doesn’t like the station, that’s just _too goddamn bad._ The last that's heard from him until such time as requiring further instruction is an indignant squawk of noise that's almost immediately drowned out by a decade-appropriate Janet Jackson track. Any time Kankri tries to talk over it, you just drum your hands on the wheel and turn it up louder. It takes three tries before he gives up entirely.

 

It's not until after taking your exit that the station is turned down. "Gonna tell me where to go?"

 

 _"Obviously,"_ he snaps.

 

"Not gonna be a little shit about it?"

 

Kankri hisses, a disgusted noise catching in his throat. "Just take the next fucking left."

 

You _take the next fucking left_ and the scenery slowly changes over again: from highways in the rain to residential streets. Kankri sits forward in his seat now, watching for signs and indicators of where to turn. For your part, you just follow directions. The experience is as mundane and non-threatening as one could imagine until the houses start to expand – properties morphing into more luxurious architecture; lawns becoming less overgrown and more meticulously manicured. The streets change over in stages from cute low-income housing, to Stepford Wives, to _oh my God who has the stones to live in a hotel all year round?_

 

All hopes that maybe, _maybe_ you're just passing through are completely dashed when Kankri directs you down a street which brings into full view - even in the rain, in the dark - the picturesque, postcard-worthy backdrop of the Pacific. So now the hope is that maybe Kankri doesn't see how all the color has drained from your face. How perfectly unsurprising that someone so grating and insufferable as him is absolutely stuffed to bursting with trust fund money, honestly. The timing of this big reveal would typically boil the blood a lot more, but you're currently more concerned with being on your best behavior again. It’s dangerous enough driving drunk through any neighborhood, let alone one where the cops will arrive _as if by magic_ if a neighbor so much as squints wrong at your car. Even just modulating around the possibilities for arrest relating to what's in or around the Impala, there are _so many_ reasons for them to put you in cuffs.

 

Kankri, at one point, berates you for driving too fast when your foot subconsciously presses down on the gas: a silent cry for help to leave the area as soon as possible. The car slows down, but only just, and for whatever next turn you have to make, a wordless prayer is conjured to the heavens to please, _please_ let all of this blow over without incident. Then, eventually, “Right here.” He grumbles as the houses have now become more like miniature resorts than actual houses. “The second driveway coming up, with the flowers on the mailbox.”

 

Good God in heaven, you cannot believe _anybody_ seriously lives here.

 

Kankri isn’t just rich; he’s _filthy_ rich. There's the wealthy properties that are _around_ where Kankri lives, and then there's Kankri, with his _oceanfront property_ literally kissing the coastline, so upsettingly bestowed with money that he makes middle-class soccer moms weep bitter tears and bake their jealousy into passive-aggressive pies. The front of the property faces the street, with a driveway big enough for four huge pick-up trucks to sit in a square no problem, not even accounting for the garage. The beauty of it all is soul-wrenchingly opulent. For a brief moment, you recall the size of the tiny two-bedroom brownstone you suffered through in your youth, superimposing it on the well-built beachy structure ahead. It is _easily_ four times larger, if not more. Maybe that's just a trick of geometry, but doubtful. The front garden is tended to perfection, full of lush succulents and hastas and some ground cover plants which are difficult to determine in current weather conditions. The porch light illuminates a red wooden door with an oval glass center, framed by two faux pillars of some fancy sort of material. Probably marble, knowing rich people. There are also _actual_ pillars, from what you can see, which may have looked tasteful to whomever designed it – but it just looks tacky to everyone else. Despite the ample room for company or whatever else, only one vehicle is already here, parked close to the walkway leading up to the door. That vehicle, too – although not nearly as expensive as the house – is still _way_ out of your price range.

 

As soon as the car is parked, Kankri unbuckles at lightning-fast speeds. "I presume you will know your way out."

 

You snort bitterly. "What, don't wanna be called in as a witness when I get pulled over?"

 

"I truly do not care," he snips. "Thank you for the ride."

 

"Well," you say, "At least your mama raised you with _some_ semblance of propriety."

 

Kankri's mouth purses tight as he glares, setting up his coat to drape over his head for protection. He actually shakes his goddamn finger at you, like he's scolding a toddler. "Don't you _fucking_ talk about my mother."

 

Because you haven't quite kicked the hornet's nest a satisfactory amount, you jeer back as he sprints out: "Awww, don't be so sore! _I love to brag about my beautiful girlfriend!!"_

 

He slams the car door shut. You hear a thunderous _STOMP_ against the metal - did - did he just _kick_ your car? He _did!_ He kicked your goddamn car! If that little fucker leaves a dent, so help him, he’ll wish he actually knew _how_ to utilize those clunky black boots. He’ll surely damn well need them. Along with the ability to block a punch.

 

But fine! _Fine._ What the fuck ever. He’s out of your car, out of your hair, out of your _life._ It is time to retreat to the safety of a hotel somewhere and to pretend like this entire evening was just one long, bizarre fever dream – punctuated appropriately by peeling out and away into the night, local law enforcement be damned. By the time an establishment built specifically for temporary recuperation makes itself available and you’ve checked into a room, you hope to never cross paths with Kankri or his gaudy-ass neighborhood ever again. Surely there must be some sort of deserved compensation for all the poor decision-making that just got done doing, and – ah! Yes. Perfect. A mini fridge right there in the room.

 

You promptly piss away the angry, angry memories of the evening by drinking yourself into a coma. Several bottles of cold brew and shitty old movies are the only comfort you need, yes sir. No use trying to meet Eridan with this much rage in your system. An orgasm would also help with that, normally, but wouldn't you know it - all the fancy fixings are packed away in the car. Plus, dealing with the brat was more than enough cockblocking material to sour the mood. Neither a steaming hot shower nor all the skin flicks in the world will cure that ill.

 

It's hard to tell what time it is by the time sleep finally drags its claws over your face, but it fails to release you for several hours. Somehow, Drunk Cronus was kind enough to remember that shutting the blinds and drawing the curtains is a common courtesy for Sober Cronus - and his murderous hangovers. Thank you, Drunk Cronus. Though in all honesty, your humble opinion? Doesn't feel like you got nearly drunk enough: the snotty little shit's keening, pretentious shouts still rattle around like needle-covered marbles in the back of your brain. Breakfast and a shower alleviate it...sort of. A strong cigarette helps with the headache. There is a chance the very concept of Kankri's existence will still be completely obliterated from your short-term memory by the time you find Dan, if given enough time.

 

Where does he live, again?

 

After cleaning up, and slamming down some painkillers, you reach into your pocket for the piece of paper and take a map from your bag to double-check it. And the oddest thing happens as you go back and forth: between the map and the address, map, address, map, address. One of the needle-covered balls stabbing at the back of your brain starts to shake harder. You heard this street name yesterday, you're almost sure of it. In a way that was unrelated to the fact that it was written down before even getting into California. How is that possible? Did you drive right past his house and you didn't even notice? That seems unlikely -

 

Your brain does a nice, neat little replay. It takes several minutes of fighting through the hangover, but it gets there eventually. Kankri's snooty hemming and hawing jab at the soft meat-folds in your skull responsible for memory retention in the form of him babbling his address. The address then does this neat little mental trick where it lays right on top of Eridan's address on the folded piece of paper.

 

You realize that there really is no such thing as God, because everything about both addresses - save for the house numbers - is exactly the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **cw: racism, misgendering, implied transphobia & abuse, misogynistic slur, mentioning accusations of sexual assault, mention of cancer **
> 
> I struggled with this one a lot. Words fail me, just take it. I'll be sooooo glad to get to the next chapter lmao
> 
> All i'll say is bear in mind neither kankri nor dualscar is by any means a shining example of racial awareness, though they each come from opposite ends of the spectrum.

Maybe you’re remembering it wrong?

 

Nope. Definitely remembering it right.

 

You make a tight line with your lips, crunching Danny’s address into a ball in your palm. The hand not currently squeezing the life out of a tiny scrap of paper drags down over your face while you groan with all the disappointment readily available in your entire body: “Mother _fucker.”_

This...can’t be happening. After everything from yesterday, you need to _go back there?_ Where that snobby piece of shit _lives?_ Why does the universe insist on punishing you like this. What have you ever done wrong? Excluding the extensive list of things you’ve _actually_ done wrong - what, beyond that, would indicate the need for a retribution so severe as this? It’s not that Eridan is banned from being successful in life, necessarily. Just...does he have to be _so_ successful that he lives on this particular street, this particular day, when the absolute last thing you want to risk is dealing with the neighbors? Rather, dealing with _one_ neighbor, specifically? He was already a handful enough, and he wasn’t even around you more than a couple of hours. How is that going to go if he decides to call the cops on you? (And there is _no doubt_ that Kankri would call the cops. He seems like exactly the fucking type.)

 

Something curls up from your stomach, into your spine and all the rest of your bones, and crushes ribs against lungs. You wheeze, getting up to pace the hotel room while lighting up another cigarette. Then another. And another. The heavy, dark cloud of dread you’re feeling could also (theoretically) just be the twin ribs on your right side that never healed right as you got older. This, combined with the fact that you’ve been managing your emotions with legal toxic substances for _years._ Yes sir, it sure is time to ignore that rising tide of Emotions in the chest. Who has the time to overly-consider a worst-case scenario? Certainly not Cronus Ampora!

 

It takes like three cigarettes and something akin to meditation before the decision finally drops haltingly into the territory of: in all honesty? Fuck it. What could go wrong, really? He doesn’t want anything to do with you, and you don’t want anything to do with him. Perhaps that will work out in your favor. If he can just mind his damn business, there won’t be a federal _fucking_ issue. What’s there to be worried about? It’s just a casual visit to see your little brother. So far as anyone else knows on the street, there’s literally nothing to suspect. Danny’s not exactly a social butterfly, in any case - he surely hasn’t talked very much to his neighbors _at all,_ let alone about his shitty family.

 

* * *

 

The trick is to drive in and act for all the world like you’ve never even been here before; which is easy enough, since it’s only the _second_ time you’ve been here, and everything looks different in the daylight after a night’s hard rain. A small pang of jealousy punches you in the chest as you park the Impala in Eridan’s driveway: his mansion-like house rivals every other one on this street, which is to say it’s ludicrously huge and could probably contain five families. Plus, the smell of the ocean hanging thick around the air and hearing the waves crash against the sand in the distance? Not helping with the impression that Dan lives in a literal palace of paradise. You consider for a moment that his work life is probably horrendous in the hopes that it will balance out the obvious discrepancy in karmic bullshit that is being presented here.

 

There is one car in this awkwardly large driveway, as expensive as it is terrible. Does Danny know that the kind of car he has makes him look like a 40-year-old soccer mom? Did he graduate with a profession in how to look like an adult virgin man? Maybe the house is overcompensating; is it possible for someone to perform empty nesting behaviors when they’ve never had kids?

 

A therapist might say that perhaps this cruel inner commentary about your younger brother displays a certain jealousy regarding his monetary success. Perhaps it says something about your feelings of perceived inadequacy when considered against everything _you_ had to go through just to get even a quarter of the way to where Eridan is. And you would tell that therapist to shut their lying face, that is _not_ what is going on here. You just really despise this absurdly proportioned house and the shitty lavender mom van parked in front of it.

 

Standing on the front porch, after double-checking your personal appearance (hair slicked back, beard trimmed, clothes relatively neat, an excusable dash of cologne so you don’t stink), you reach out for the doorbell. Time stops for a split second; a rush of hesitation when it’s remembered that the last time Eridan saw you, you had curling waves of black hair down to your mid-back and DD-cup bras and a _distinct_ lack of body hair. But it’s...not like you were exactly keeping your intentions a secret, to be fair. Right?

 

_“You know all the guys from those TV shows you like who always look really cool?” Asks a younger and infinitely more naive You, in the hideous moment-by-moment replay of your mind. “Well, someday, I’d like to be a lot like them. I want to smoke and drink like a fish, grow HUGE muscles, and have short hair, and a big, hairy chest.”_

_In this particular memory, there is a tiny, curious Eridan sitting in your lap. “Can girls grow hair on their chests?”_

_“I’m thinkin’ when Mama’s not around to yell at me ‘bout shavin’ it all off, I can grow my hair anywhere I like.”_

_As your brain mashes together all the memories of the late-night talks you had when you both couldn’t sleep, stirring all the words and pictures together into a homogenous soup of angst and longing, a slightly older Eridan asks the question of a lifetime: “Do you want to be a boy, Cro?”_

_There’s pain in your voice when you answer, a little more grown. A little more tired. “Sometimes Cro does think a lot about how she’d like to be a boy.”_

_“...I don’t think you can be a boy when you’re already a girl…?”_

_“Danny-o,” you tell him, “With sheer_ fucking _determination and a little bit of magic, I bet you I could be the hottest boy on the block_ right now.”

 

Well...surprise, Danny. _Better late than never_ is the thought as you ring the doorbell.

 

And then, after a minute or two of waiting, in the most anti-climactic conclusion ever...Eridan doesn’t answer the door.

 

Okay.

 

No need to panic.

 

Maybe he just didn’t hear it, or he’s just being weird. Not like he expects company half the time anyway, you figure. Ring the doorbell again.

 

Nothing? No?

 

Fuck.

 

You _really_ don’t want to be left standing around like an asshole out here; you are incredibly conscious of the fact that the neighbors might be watching. They also might just as easily be minding their own business, but a healthy amount of paranoia seems appropriate with the given location. The third time, you try knocking. Still nothing. Is that not his car in the driveway? Hell, even if it belonged to someone else, wouldn’t they have heard all the commotion by now?

 

Instinctively, you turn your head to check the driveway, and yes, the car is definitely still there. It’s...technically still in the middle of work hours for most respectable businesses. But if that were the case wouldn’t he have driven himself in his own damn car? Is he just...not here? If he’s not here, then where the fuck is he?

 

You try calling him from the small black brick in your car that functions as a portable phone, taking it with you to the front door while you dial what you know to be Danny’s home number, but the only result is audible ringing from inside the house. A few seconds later, it’s straight to voicemail. “Dan, it’s…” the words stop mid-sentence. You hang up and knock again, inexplicably. Harder this time. Don’t they say something about how madness is repeating the same actions while expecting different results?

 

“He won’t be home for another week, you know.”

 

You turn around on Danny’s front porch, and see a familiar face from last night which causes your stomach to drop with horror. Dark skin and fluffy, unstyled black hair; multiple piercings in the ears, shark bites, and a spiked stud below the lower lip. He’s dressed in a pair of plaid pajama pants and watching you with a critical eye, neatly closing up the door to Eridan’s mailbox, one hand clasped around an extracted bundle of envelopes. Swooping low around his shoulders is a thick, fuzzy, cowl-necked red sweater that is a _heavily_ saturated cherry-red, the bottom of it frumping down almost to his knees. It’s oversized almost to the point of being shapeless, hiding his silhouette behind a shield of clothes in a way that feels strikingly familiar - familiar in a way that feels like it should jump out at you, but your brain glosses over it in favor of picking apart _everything else._ The sweater would be fashionable only if it were still 1983, which is a shockingly unexpected look for a kid you recall stomping around the bar in black leather and mesh with steel-toed boots. Further proof positive - at least for you - that he was _absolutely_ trying to put on some sort of character show for his buddies. Sure do hope he doesn’t regret getting any of those piercings. (Heaven help him if he ever got a tattoo.)

 

For now, more to the point: you’re more than a little bitter about the fact that the universe seems to take _extra_ delight - of late, in any case - in deliberately bucking back against your express wishes not to run into obnoxious nosy brats. Because really? Really? What are the odds that not only does he live on the same street, but he is also collecting Danny’s mail, for whatever weird goddamn reason? Hey, that’s a good question, actually. _Why is_ Kankri collecting Danny’s mail?

 

“His car is right there.” You gesture meaningfully to the (in your very valid opinion) overpriced Honda in the driveway.

 

Kankri scowls as he walks closer, bending to scoop up the newspaper on the concrete. He then informs, with all the inflection of someone who thinks you are a complete idiot: “He took a cab to the airport. He’s in Denver.”

 

 _Denver??_ Sweet holy Lord, you are _not_ driving out to fuck-good-Christ’ing _Colorado._ “Doing _what?!”_

 

“I don’t know.” Kankri replies, “Some conference or another. What business is it of yours?”

 

As you close the gap from front porch to driveway, the fact that he is still standing there and asking questions is obnoxious all on its own; but now there is a narrowing of the eyes, your inner defense of being a petty old bastard agitated to life. “What business you got taking his mail?”

 

He sneers at you. “Because I was _asked to_ for the duration of his trip. Did you really think I was just waltzing up here and taking it? Because - what? I like stealing peoples’ mail?”

 

“Hey, I have no idea what you could be planning. Let the record show that you said it first.”

 

His arms cross over his chest. “You know, the concept in this country of accusing someone with a darker skin tone of theft comes from a history of colonialism and bigotry that you might want to re-examine. It’s such a tasteless thing to pull out in public spaces. Or anywhere, really.”

 

You can _feel_ your eyes threatening to cross. “Did you just expend, like, an entire paragraph of words in order to call me racist?” You bend slightly at the waist, making clarifying gestures with your hands while Kankri continues to look less than pleased with your existence. “Because they...I don’t know if you know this. But they have a _word_ for that. It’s ‘ _racist.’_ You can _just_ say you think I’m being racist.”

 

Kankri leers at you and pulls his arms together tighter. “Well, _now_ you’re being a condescending asshole.”

 

“I’m not the one who walked up here and started talking shit to a guy three times my age.” You then helpfully point out, squinting with judgment: “Also, as I recall, accusing _black people_ of theft is typically the action that betrays a racist.”

 

Kankri, with wide eyes: “Are you saying I don’t _look like_ I’m black?”

 

“Are you saying that you _are?”_

 

“I’m saying that I think it’s quite alarming you’re operating on the pre-disposed assumption that one has to look a certain way in order to be considered part of a certain racial diaspora.”

 

 _Goddamn,_ again with the fancy words and pointless yapping! You can barely keep up with this kid. You're a fucking high-school drop-out, the highest grade you ever got in English was a D. Short for _Don't Give A Shit._ At least you don't need high-society poetic fluff to fire back in Kankri's direction on all cylinders: “Well, _I’m_ saying I think you’re full of shit, and you don’t like that I called you out piggybacking on black peoples’ suffering in order to make a point.”

 

His mouth flaps open and shut like a fish suffocating on land, red-brown eyes all big and full of alarm, before he stammers back: “Well - it’s not like _you_ would be any better!”

 

“Really. And how’s that.”

 

You actually don’t even listen to his counter-argument when he starts to respond, because the debate has already become painfully circular and you have a distinct feeling Kankri is going to go straight for the character assassination. The winning route instead goes to checking your watch with a casual roll of the eyes. “Listen, kid, I’d love to tussle the morality of systemic injustice with you over afternoon tea” – and the phrase is stated with all the gumption of a four-year-old staring down a plate of peas at dinner time – “but I only came here to see my baby brother. So if he’s not home, I have lost literally all interest in this ritzy-ass neighborhood.” Kankri seems to stop for a hot moment on your words, but when he tries to talk again, you cut him off. “Do you know what day he’ll be home _exactly?”_

 

Kankri’s mouth clamps shut as he glares at you. He almost certainly does not like being interrupted or corralled around mid-conversation, but he’ll just have to suck it up and put on his big boy pants, now won’t he?

 

“...Are you going to actually respond, or d’you intend to just stand there fuming ‘cause you’re mad I won your sixth grade debate competition?”

 

“I wouldn’t say so much that you _debated_ as you did completely railroad me out of any opportunity to make a counterpoint." He snaps, “but that has no impact on the fact that I’m hesitant to tell you when Daniel will be back in town.”

 

Once again, everything comes to an abrupt halt, because one word out of that entire mess of declarations stuck out to you and it is an atrocity which must be addressed. You will literally lose sleep if you do not, because good God. What the hell has your kid brother been doing all these years? “When _who_ will be back in town?” You check, thoroughly perplexed.

 

Kankri fires back, no hesitation: “Are you being intentionally obtuse now, or has your hearing already started to go?”

 

“Hey!” You snip, “That’s elderly abuse. Implyin’ I ain’t in full control of my fuckin’ faculties and shit.”

 

He rolls his eyes. _“Language!_ There are children on this street.”

 

You make a grand gesture to the entire neighborhood, which is – at present – entirely bereft of children. Then, just to be contrary: "Motherfucker, where?"

 

Kankri’s upper lip curls in distaste. You redirect before he can try to complain again. “Back to my point: did you just call him _Daniel?”_

 

“That is his name, yes,” he says in annoyance.

 

“Hahaha, sure,” you chuckle. “Except it’s not. Is that really what he told you?”

 

It is now Kankri’s turn to look confused, which he does, and quite convincingly so. “Sometimes I hear others calling him Dan for short, if that's what you mean.”

 

“No, but you just – you assumed his name was Daniel?” The concept is interesting, but not surprising.

 

Kankri shrugs dismissively, a deep scowl set on his face. “I assumed nothing. Why does it matter to you what his name is?”

 

With arms up at your sides, you snort in derision. “It sure as hell ain’t Daniel, I’ll tell you that.”

 

“Well, what is it, then, since you're such an expert on the matter?”

 

“Really?” You challenge. “Are we doing this right now? Because I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna believe me. Almost nobody ever does.”

 

It would appear that the answer is ‘yes’, because Kankri is staring you down with that competitive fire in his eyes that vaguely appeared for a few minutes not twenty-four hours ago. “I’m almost certain he doesn’t have an older brother anyway, so you might as well.” He growls, “We’ll call it a test of your identity.”

 

You _have_ to laugh. That is the stupidest shit you’ve heard in quite a while. "How you planning to _test my identity_ when you don't even know what the hell you're listening for?"

 

Kankri wags the envelopes at you in frustration. “I'm very good at spotting a liar. I'll know."

 

You throw your head back, grinning. "HAH!!"

 

"Don't laugh! It's the truth! And if you think for one second I’ll divulge Daniel’s return when you may intend him harm –”

 

“It’s Eridan.” The charade was fun while it lasted, but the curtain had to drop at some point.

 

He stops. And yep – there it is. The total utter bewilderment, followed by...wait for it: "Oh, my God. How terribly horrendous, you actually _are_ related to him."

 

Yep. Exactly as expec - _wait a fucking minute._

 

It takes a minute of squinting at Kankri in alarm. Just when he starts to smile, pleased and triumphant (just for confusing you, you suppose), it clicks, and you say in admonishment: "Have you been reading Danny's goddamn mail?"

 

"Oh, don't sound so surprised." He says, rolling his eyes. "I've been gathering his bills for the past four days. There are names on the envelope and I have perfectly working eyes. The deduction process was elementary at best."

 

You peer at him. "Is there some reason why you were _lying_ to me, then, about his name?"

 

His hands go to his hips. "It was cautionary! What if you were going to wait for him to come home and - and -"

 

Good Lord, you cannot _wait_ to hear this wild story he's cooked up. "And _what?"_

 

Kankri stammers angrily. "I don't know, but it couldn't be anything good!"

 

You snort, "I'm not in the goddamn mafia. Honestly," here you add, with a shrug, "he could probably use a little excitement in his life. I'm sure that what he really does with his time is awfully dry. Seemed to me that all the fun got sucked outta him after he graduated college."

 

His upper lip curls with disgust. Kankri recoils, arms crossing again. "Ugh, disgusting. I can't believe the nerve of you. Insinuating Eridan would benefit positively from a violent traumatic experience."

 

This, along with a hot-flash through your head of a tinier Eridan begging for your presence from another room, makes your jaw clench. You do your damndest to ignore it. "It's called sarcasm, Princess. I suggest you learn it."

 

Kankri _actually_ turns his nose up at you, which makes you feel short despite being way older and having a couple of inches over him, which you are very much not a fan of. "Feminine epithets intended as insults? How barbaric. Didn't your mother teach you better manners?"

 

 _That's_ the line that grits your teeth behind pursed lips. "Mama only taught me how to lie, grit my teeth, and pick a lock. I thanked God, Jesus, _and_ the Virgin Mary when the cancer choked her out eight months ago, _baby girl."_

 

Surprisingly, the commentary stops Kankri cold. It would appear he at least has the sensibility to pause when sensitive famly topics are brought up in conversation - who knew? You honestly half expected him to ignore you in favor of continuing to be nosy. And then something weird happens: he looks...almost _sympathetic?_

 

“Eight months?”

 

The change in tone is so unexpected that it takes you a minute. “Yeah? What about it?”

 

Kankri furrows his brow, shaking his head a bit. “I, uh...” then, after some hesitation: "Mi - Misogynistic insults aside, I'm. I'm so sorry. I had no idea. I mean, even though you don't sound, ah, upset about it, that was. Very rude of me, and I apologize."

 

Another few minutes. And then it clicks. Along with a very simple, but very easy to pull off idea. Your expression falls, and you lean into the tragedy, which impacted you in no other way apart from a courtesy letter signed by the hospital to your mailing address: something that Kankri very distinctly doesn't need to know. (Because really, what were you going to do? Claim her ashes?) “Look, you don't gotta be all sore about it.” It is surprisingly easy to sound inconvenienced about the whole subject. You eat it up for what it's worth. “I don't really care at this point. It's been eight months. I just wanted to check in and see how Dan was dealing after the fact.”

 

“So you...you drove here to tell him about...?”

 

“Oh, hell no. It's been eight months, I assume he's already heard. It's just about time we see each other again anyway, and all." You shrug your shoulders. "But he’s not here, and I don’t have a phone number for fucking _Colorado.”_ One eyebrow goes up. “Presumin’ you don’t, either?”

 

“I - um - no.” Kankri is quiet now, looking visibly distressed. “He...like I said, he should be back in a week. I’m not really sure what you’re...what you’re doing until then. Do you have the time? Would you have to leave somewhere and then come back? For work, or anything?”

 

He’s rather considerate all of a sudden. The somber notes of a death in the family will gentle down anyone’s demeanor, you suppose? You make a show of checking the watch on your right wrist, even though that’s definitely not the kind of time being gauged, and glance back at Eridan’s house in staged defeat. “I mean, I’m kinda already here.” You say. “Won’t really be a big deal if I’ve gotta wait a little longer to give the word, ‘cause I doubt anyone else is gonna do it. I just need to go back to the hotel. F’you could just lemme know what day he gets back exactly -”

 

“To the hotel?” Kankri furrowed his brow. “Which hotel? How much are you paying?”

 

What an odd question. It certainly earns him a puzzled look, on your part. "Why do you care?"

 

He doesn't answer; just stands there, dumbfounded, looking just the slightest bit guilty. After a sigh, you admit: "The last one I checked into that I could _afford_ was on the other side of town. I'm thinking if I don't wanna break the bank and I'm staying longer than I figured, I'll probably just -"

 

No sooner has the phrase _I'll probably just sleep there_ left your mouth that Kankri, rudely interrupting you, blurts out what seems an extremely impulsive suggestion. You almost want to correct him on it, but the offer catches you so off guard that you're stunned into total silence. "Why not just stay in the neighborhood?"

 

He must have read the shock on your face, but the clarification is no less startling. "In my house, I mean. There are plenty of guest rooms. I'm practically right next door, and it's...it's free?"

 

 _It's free_ is, quite frankly, the most enticing fact about the whole arrangement over just about anything else - but it is also _suspiciously_ good-hearted, which you imply very directly as you leer back. "Weren't we agreeing just last night how it would be just the _swellest_ if we, like, _never_ saw each other again?"

 

Kankri scowls, like he's insulted you didn't immediately take his offer. He probably is, if you stop to think about it. "And yet here we are anyway, by a stroke of fate I don't care to ponder too long on. Do you want free room and board or not?"

 

"Excuse me. I'm sorry." Your hands go up in a defensive gesture. "I just might need a moment to put together the pieces as to why you're suddenly being so generous? I assumed you wanted nothing to do with me."

 

"I don't," Kankri says. "But special circumstances call for special exceptions. It is positively absurd that you should have to pay money waiting for your brother to come home simply to discuss the impact of a recent loss in the family."

 

You decide not to reiterate how your mother was a mean old cuss and you're glad the cancer killed her, nor do you lash your tongue to the fact that Kankri seems very keen on puffing himself up as the perfect Good Samaritan in this scenario. It's like he's never learned how to be selfless his whole life. To be fair, perhaps you're not the best one to judge. "Okay, _but._ " You say, deciding to test his commitment - you know, because, again, _it's free_ were the two magic words. "Consider how swimmingly we got on last night driving back. Now, consider extending that for a whole 'nother week."

 

Kankri put his hands on his hips. "First of all, I am truly surprised you remember anything about that night at all."

 

Your eyes roll. "Gimme a fuckin' break. I was still standin' straight 'fore I got back in the car. It ain't like I was swervin' all over the road."

 

He ignores you entirely, holding up two fingers. _Very_ annoying. "Secondly, I am one-hundred percent capable of being a civil adult and a good host. The question here is whether you're going to behave yourself under my roof."

 

 _Excuse_ you? Was he not the one basically spending the whole ride insinuating you were a rapist crouched in the bushes?! - God, _whatever._ Whatever. It's not your job to straighten out him and his delusional, fucked-up morality. "Are you gonna be a little bitch about it whenever I do something you don't like?"

 

Kankri _glares._

 

"I mean _accidentally,_ obviously."

 

"...Just don't smoke indoors or make continuously racist commentary, and I won't boot you out on the front porch. How is that?"

 

You smile, unable to resist being petty, even if it is low-brow and probably incredibly tasteless. "Now Kankri, how can I avoid being racist when I don't even know what race you are?"

 

He bites by shaking a finger at you, eyes flashing. Redder, you could swear, when he's angry. " _Don't_ push it." He snaps. "Do we have a deal, or would you prefer the hotel?"

 

Damn. You were honestly sort of hoping he would crack and correct you by over-sharing his ethnicity - if for no other reason apart from sheer curiosity. You shrug. Maybe you'll find out later. "Fine, yeah, whatever. I'll sleep in a fancy free bed in your dumb upscale house. And I promise I'll be on my best behavior, like a good little boy." You make the Boy Scout's salute on the last statement, just to emphasize the sarcasm in your tone. He isn't pleased, but he takes you at your word. Much to your chagrin, you still remember which house is his, even in the daylight. Kankri walks over to his front door with Eridan's mail while you relocate your car to his driveway, parking it right next to the only other vehicle there. Never has there been a more immediate or more apparent reminder, in your presence, of the insurmountable gap between you and the wealthy elite. And pretty much anyone else in modern society, for that matter - but mostly the wealthy elite.

 

But hey. Free room and board.

 

You feel like you're going to later regret making this decision, but for the time being, better to be immediately sated with the guarantee that now you won't have to pay anything beyond what you already planned. You learned early on in life never to look a gift horse in the mouth. To Kankri's credit, you've experienced people far worse than he, and you're willing to tolerate quite a bit of bullshit in the interest of cutting corners.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **cw: misgendering; misogynistic language; mild physical violence**
> 
> welcome to Chateau De Vantas. (it's a long one folks!)

Not three seconds after entering Kankri’s disgustingly lavish abode, you feel as though your very existence is, somehow, tracking dirt throughout the living space regardless of how clean you actually are.

 

“Shoes off at the door, please.” He instructs, literally standing nearby and waiting for you to comply, watching you like a stern school teacher. You roll your eyes, but the shoes come off without a fuss; you sort of sweep them to the side with your heel, joining the collection by the door. The steel-toed Doc Martens from the bar are there, along with a few other pairs that must belong to Kankri, because the ones that don’t match up are notably child-sized. So, there’s that, and there’s the fact that some of the pairs which obviously are his are - of all things - women’s kitten heels.

 

Hey, you’re not one to judge. Back in the day, when you were really forced to, you rocked a pair of purple heels all the way through junior prom. Ain’t really your thing since you transitioned, but - nothing wrong with a man that likes a little click in his step if it ain’t hurting nobody.

 

Kids, however, make you uneasy. You look up, gesturing to a set of bright red sneakers with white laces. “Who’s the little brat?”

 

Kankri’s expression sours. “That would be Karkat.” He explains, “He is my younger brother, and I am the only one allowed to call him a _little brat._ Please do not do that again.”

 

You make a laboring sigh without really thinking about it. “I’m really not that great with kids,” you mention. It is, technically, a lie: babysitting as a teenager shaped you up real quick for dealing with small children. Doesn’t necessarily mean that you want to repeat the experience.

 

He thumbs toward the front door right behind you. “The exit’s that way, if you change your mind,” he says, shrugging.

 

And that settles that. “...Never mind, then,” you groan. You rub between your eyes. “Just - how old is he?”

 

“Just turned nine last month.”

 

“Nine,” you repeat. “...Got it.” So older than a toddler, younger than a pre-teen. Provided he wasn’t especially ornery, you could probably work with that if you really needed to. How bad could he be, anyway? You raised _Eridan,_ after all.

 

Kankri checks his watch on the underside of his right wrist, then turns to go further into the house as he speaks. “We have a few hours still before I need to pick him up from school. He should behave himself just fine with guests, though - this way. I’ll show you what’s what.”

 

Left with little other choice, you follow, duffle bag slung over your shoulder, despite the biting reminder in the back of your head that you are _sorely_ out of place in a house this big and expensively decorated. The foyer alone is the size of your old living room, at a wager. There are things decorating the tables and exquisitely painted walls that are worth an entire retirement pension and could surely shackle you with restitution until the day you die, should you break them. Everything is cast in warm beiges and siennas, with accents leaning towards a rich gold. Occasionally, hints of a cool turquoise blue break up the palette, wherever it seems appropriate. There’s an eclectic mixture of artwork scattered around the house that is equal parts modern and pop culture. Occasionally, there are things that seem to be more draped, either as fabric or maybe a tapestry, but you don’t have time to fully peruse as Kankri struts down the hall with a purpose. You don’t really get a good look at those.

 

He starts at the back of the house, showing you the guest room (across the hall from his own, and Karkat’s is to the right of that), which is equipped with its own bathroom, complete with a fucking jacuzzi. It’s the biggest of the three guest rooms, he explains, which has you choking a little on your words. The bedsheets, on their own, are probably worth more than anything you’ve ever banked in a month’s worth of pay. You drop your bag on the decorative jade duvet to claim the temporary space as yours, refraining from remarking negatively on the lacey aesthetic. Hey, it’s free - and it comes with a goddamn _jacuzzi._ Beggars can’t be choosers! In all fairness, you’ve dealt with much worse beyond getting stuck with some dead nonna’s ugly floral prints for a week. At least whoever picked out these bedsheets was somewhat tasteful: in the mid-‘80s, it may have even been trendy.

 

As Kankri starts walking back to the kitchen, you pause in front of one closed door which catches your attention. One of the other guest rooms, you assume, since it’s neither Kankri’s nor Karkat’s based on what he pointed out. You’re exceedingly curious how big the other guest rooms must be, if the one you’re staying in is already so alarming in size. So you close your hand around the knob and turn it, asking aloud: “Hey, what’s in here?”

 

You get a glimpse - just a tiny one - of a room that is covered ceiling to floor in rich green hues. It lasts for all of half a second before a dark hand wraps around yours, squeezing hard as it _yanks_ the door closed again. You pull back in shock; or try to. Except Kankri is still holding your hand over the doorknob, glaring. The way he pushes up against you and blocks the door doesn’t do much to intimidate - if that even is his intention. Rather, it just makes you _angry._

 

“What the _fuck!”_

 

He meets your eyes with a stern look. “You _never._ Go in this room.”

 

“Why?” You snap, not appreciating the dictatorial shift in his mood. “Worried I’m gonna track my peasant stink all over the house?”

 

“That’s cute.” Kankri chuckles humorlessly. “Just don’t go inside, and we won’t have an issue.”

 

It’s at least worth a try getting an answer, you figure - since he’s being such a shit about showing off. You tease him a little, smirking. “So it’s the room where you keep your secret sex dungeon, then.”

 

There’s that flash of ruby-red in his eyes again as he sneers, tightening his already vice-like grip on both your hand and the door. The pain is as surprising from Kankri as it is unwelcome and makes your expression go grim.

 

When he hisses back, his voice is like ice. The vitriol he spits is so startling that it actually gives you pause. “It’s the room that’s none of your _fucking_ business what’s in it. And if you imply one more time that I have a sex dungeon in the same house rooming my _nine-year-old brother,_ I _will_ rescind my offer.” He lifts one finger, shaking it at your nose in a gesture which reminds you a little too much of the bitch who made you wear a purple dress to church every Sunday, no matter how much you cried. “Don’t go in there, and keep your filthy old mouth clean. Am I clear?”

 

You glance to the doorknob, where he’s holding your hand so tight his knuckles have blanched, then back to his face. While you can admit upon closer inspection that - perhaps - you _may_ have struck a nerve, there’s still the matter of being treated like an insolent teenager.

 

“...Crystal.” You grunt in admonishment, “You gonna lay off so I can unstick from the forbidden door?”

 

Kankri, still giving you that dark scowl with lips pursed, carefully releases his hold after another moment of watching. Distrust runs like a current through his whole posture, but you behave yourself; at least with regard to the door. Otherwise, however, you do grab the wrist that was just near to yours at first opportunity, twisting it up above Kankri’s head and leaning in. His eyes go wide a moment. He gasps, backing unexpectedly against the wall with an exclamation. _“Hey!”_

 

He pulls with his whole arm, but you know he’s not going anywhere, and so does he, relenting after a moment with a snarl stuck to his features. He doesn’t have the upper body strength to contest you - clearly. “Now, let’s get something straight. If I’m gonna stay here for _any_ period of time, I’ll need you to speak to me like an adult. I’m not a fan of all the fucking finger-wagging. I’m twice your goddamn age; have a little respect for your elders. And next time you try it, I’ll break those pretty digits right off your hand. You hear?”

 

Kankri regards you in steaming silence, pulling uselessly against your grip once more. “You’re hurting me,” he snips.

 

 _“Do_ you _hear?”_ You repeat, expecting.

 

He scoffs, sharp sound breaking the tension. _“Yes,_ fine! I _get_ it! Let go of me!”

 

And you do, after a second - because you’re not quite _that_ cruel. He rubs his wrist, sneering, spending some time fussing with the fluff of dark hair on top of his head. There’s animosity bubbling just under the surface; an instinct to fight back that you can tell he is struggling to contain. Honestly, it would be interesting if he could just give in and go for a punch, but that might be asking for a miracle. The kid is all talk, from what you’ve seen.

 

“Are you going to resort to physical violence _every_ time we have a disagreement?”

 

“Nah.” You shrug, dismissive. “Just every time you try to scold me like I’m five. Don’t point your fingers and you get to keep ‘em. Easy.”

 

“You’re absolutely abhorrent,” he grumbles.

 

You chuckle, genuinely amused. “I get that a lot,” you reply. “You sure you’ll be able to handle me until Danny gets back?”

 

 _“Handle_ you.” Kankri sighs in obvious frustration, “Like you’re a wild animal.”

 

There’s a big smile on your face when you respond. “I _have_ been known to party pretty hard for my age.”

 

He peers at you, clearly displeased. “...It figures that you wouldn’t know the meaning of responsibility.”

 

“Responsibility is for squares.”

 

When Kankri’s expression sours further: “Hey, you’re the one who gave me a room. I’m just in town to check on family after a dead mom, remember? Not like I’m looking to hook up with any philosophical equals.”

 

Kankri appears to size you up after that, eyes going up and down before his upper lip curls a bit and he turns away, sighing loudly as he walks again. _“Anyway,”_ he says, redirecting the flow, “The kitchen is out here. You’re welcome to use whatever you need if you’re cooking yourself a meal. Just make sure you clean up and don’t leave a mess in the sink. Please don’t eat any of the strawberries without asking; Karkat loves those.”

 

“Uh-huh,” you say, only half paying attention as you wander out into the open kitchen. Immediately next to it is the living room and dining area, which are as overwhelming in scale as everything else in this house. Where the dining area and the kitchen vaguely intersect in the open floor plan, there is an elegant, long granite countertop serving as a bar, with four plush stools on the dining room side and cabinets on the kitchen side. ( _That_ definitely catches your focus.) Huge sliding glass doors lead out from the dining area onto a raised terracotta patio, fenced off and with a steep incline leading straight down to the back yard. By which you mean _the fucking beach._ Kankri points it out as you meander into the living room, mentioning something about keeping the fence and the back door locked at all times and that some of the steps leading down are tricky, and he should be careful.

 

You hear him, but you’re sort of distracted by perusing the continuing display of artwork and memorabilia nearer to the living room. An absolutely _massive_ mandala tapestry hangs on the far wall facing towards the kitchen, woven in vibrant colors - primarily blues and greens and golds. It seems almost to serve as a backdrop to the entire dining table, leaving hardly a scrap of wall to look at. You whistle, admittedly impressed. You don’t really have an “eye” for art, so much as an “ear”, but the intricacy of the piece speaks to months and months of hard work that anybody could appreciate.

 

“Where’s this from?” You ask, gesturing to it.

 

Kankri doesn’t answer right away. You don’t see his face, enamored as you are by the mandala, but his tone sounds cautious. “It’s...from my grandmother,” he admits.

 

“Did she make it?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

 

You look at Kankri, one eyebrow raised. “Did she not tell you?”

 

Kankri purses his lips, uncomfortable. “I barely met her when I was little and she passed away years ago, so I wouldn’t know.”

 

Hmm. Weird family dynamics. (Not like you’re unfamiliar with those, at least.) You look back curiously to the tapestry, then ask: “What about your mom or dad? Do they know?”

 

He makes an exasperated shrugging gesture. “Look, you’re asking the wrong person. I really have no idea. It’s an old heirloom, apparently, and it’s been with us for years. My great-grandmother had it, then my grandmother, and then my mother. Have you heard anything I just said, or are you just...nosing around all the decor?”

 

“Can’t a guy do both?” You wonder, arching one eyebrow, which immediately earns a sharp warning look. You sigh, waving your hand in a dismissive gesture. “Yes yes yes, I’m listening. Don’t leave a mess, don’t eat the strawberries, keep the back fence and back door locked.”

 

Your attention then moves on to something else: an extremely well-cared-for guitar on a stand. Is that - is the body of it _signatured?_ This, you cannot pass up. “Who’s _this_ from? Do you play?” The question leaves you a little too quickly as you gesture to the guitar. When you look up for confirmation, Kankri’s mouth is agape, syllables stuttering out of his throat as he looks on in bewilderment. After a thought you amend: “Never mind. You definitely don’t play. You’re way too stiff.”

 

“I - I cannot believe you. I _just_ asked you if you were too distracted by the artwork. Please st - just stop? I am _trying_ to lay down some ground rules. I can’t have you _gallivanting_ through the collections.”

 

“Aw, come on, I just wanna look.” You grin, “What’s the matter? Not cool enough to seriously brag about all this stuff?”

 

Based on the way Kankri’s spine goes rigid and his eyes bug out, that comment _really_ gets under his skin. “Not _cool_ enuh _\- what?!”_

 

You laugh. Of course he’s not. It’s already been established all his punk fashion was completely for show. “Don’t get all outta sorts, I’m just fuckin’ with ya.”

 

Although courtesy and common sense dictate you should probably be a good boy and keep your hands to yourself, the problem is, you’ve never exactly been capable of resisting a beautiful stringed instrument. As soon as you clasp your hand around the attached shoulder strap, however, you hear a panicked cry from your host. _“Excuse you!_ Please don’t touch that!!”

 

Too late, though, you’ve already got it. “Relax! I’ll be gentle,” you insist, carefully handling the guitar, turning it to read the signature - which promptly has your eyes damn near popping out of your head. Kankri storms over in the middle of your reading it, reaching out, like he wants to snatch the guitar right out of your hands.

 

“Put it down!!”

 

You hold it a little higher and turn your shoulder to the kid, a smile beaming across your face as you regard him, holding the now-fucking-legendary piece with complete awe. “Is this signed by _Jimi Hendrix?”_

  
Kankri makes a bunch of flustered hand gestures. _“Yes,_ and it’s not yours! Put it back!”

 

You ignore him in favor of emphasizing your amazement. “You have a guitar that was signed by Jimi-Motherfucking- _Hendrix?”_

 

He’s starting to get screechy, but it’s worth it, just to touch this guitar. “You are being extremely inconsiderate! Please put it down! I won’t ask again!”

 

When he reaches once more to grab it, you jerk back more for the safety of the guitar than anything. If Kankri gets butterfingers in the wake of his anger, that’s some seriously priceless shit that will turn to splinters all over the floor, and not even you would want to see that happen. You give him a _look,_ meaningfully stepping back towards the stand. “Jesus, _okay!_ Fucking _chill,_ I just wanted to read the signature!”

 

Kankri is still berating you as you return the instrument to its resting spot, speaking rapidly and in snipped syllables. “You are perfectly capable of reading without getting your hands all over it! Now I’ll have to clean it later. Who the hell knows what you were touching before you picked it up.”

 

You roll your eyes again. “It’s not like I jerked off in the car before I walked in! I wash my hands. Don’t be such a bitch.” And before he can complain about you calling him a bitch again, you switch back to another question you had: “Where’d you get that, anyway? You’re not old enough for Woodstock and all that.”

 

Kankri _growls,_ which has your eyebrows going up a bit. “It belongs to my mother, and I _really_ hope you will be more considerate for your stay. I don’t want you touching anything that priceless without permission!”

 

His _mother!_ “Ooooh! Your _mother!”_

 

He glares. “Yes,” he grits out, “the one you joked about _fucking_ the other night.”

 

You chuckle at the memory. Ahhh, mama jokes. They never get old. But you can feel the heat from Kankri giving the stink-eye, so you put your hands up, smirk and everything aside. “You’re right, that was in poor taste. Your mama’s got a Jimi Hendrix guitar. She’s _way_ outta my league.”

 

Kankri, with a bitter sting, narrows his eyes and says: “I think just about _everyone_ is out of your league.”

 

 _“Whoaaa!”_ You laugh, rearing back, hands up. “Stop the presses! Poindexter got _sassy!”_

 

“Oh, fuck off,” he snaps. He gestures to the front door. “I really should just send you back if you’re going to keep acting like an absolute fool. I’m trying to be nice.”

 

“How’d your mom get a Jimi Hendrix guitar?” You ask - mainly de-escalating before Kankri can lose his absolute _shit,_ but also because you’re genuinely curious. How could you not be? And where is this mysterious mother? (Hell, if she comes home soon, you _may_ just have to see if you can get away with asking her out, if only for the stories!) “Was that actually his? Did he play it, onstage?”

 

Unfortunately, the only reply you get is Kankri throwing his hands up with a huff. “I am not doing this,” he groans.

 

Unimpressed, you drone: “Really? You can’t tell me whether or not Jimi played the damn guitar?”

 

“It’s not my story to tell.”

 

“Aw, you’re no fun. Your mama must’ve told you at _some_ point.”

 

Kankri was...did...was he actually _squirming?_ Oh, no. Not only is it a story he definitely _knows_ \- you can tell from the discomfort in his eyes - but it’s a story he finds _embarrassing._ Oh, now you’re _desperate._ You are nothing if not a completely shameless gossip, at the best of times. You grin, leaning in and nudging Kankri at your own insistence. “C’mooonnn. It can’t be _that_ bad!”

 

He sneers, face getting heated. There’s a ruddy glow to his cheeks, dark skin lighting up with freckles as he fidgets with his sleeves. He accuses you point-blank: “Why don’t you grow up and act your own age?”

 

With a slightly dramatic hand gesture, you reply with ample sarcasm, “Because I’m an irresponsible bastard who never had a proper childhood. What’s _your_ excuse?”

 

Kankri’s eyes go wide. “I beg your pardon?!”

 

Meaningfully, you add: “You do act _very much_ like a panicked mother. Probably like, ninety percent of the time.” You hold up two fingers. “I’ve known you less than two days and I already know that.”

 

He seems to physically ruffle, somehow. If he had feathers, they would be all poofed up. Like an incredibly incensed budgie. _“I do not!!”_

 

“See, there you go, getting all defensive and screechy.”

 

He lets out an angry huff, pitch increasing. “I am not _screechy,_ either!!”

 

“Ohhhh, kiddo, you _definitely_ are.”

 

“This is absurd! I am not a _panicked mother,_ nor do I act like one! It’s not my fault you’re a reckless old man! Maybe your life would be better if you would just collect yourself for once and think before you act!”

 

“Wow.” Your eyebrows go up, “Judgy much?” All in all, at least, it’s better to let that one slide. To be fair, it’s not entirely untrue - but then again, you never claimed to be secretive with your headstrong behavior.

 

“Am I wrong?” Kankri challenges, watching you with a dark frown.

 

“I mean, _no,_ but you should probably…” you shrug, “... _not_ make snap judgments about people when you haven’t known them long.”

 

His upper lip curls a bit in his disdain. “Oh, _I_ can’t make snap judgments, but _you’ve_ known me for all of twelve hours and suddenly you’re allowed to say whatever you want about my behavioral patterns?”

 

With a smile, you gesture encouragingly. “Yes! Now you’re getting it.” (It’s only half-sarcastic. You will stand by the fact that you are definitely correct.)

 

“How is that fair?! Or _logical?!”_

 

You assure him, grinning: “It ain’t fair, but I’m the older one, so it’s tough shit for you either way.”

 

Kankri opens his mouth to squawk back - by the looks of it, fully prepared to tear into you with everything he has - when a ringing of the doorbell interrupts him, followed by aggressive knocking. He whips his head around to the front door; your attention follows, then focuses on Kankri again, waiting for his reaction. He responds by leering, full of bitterness; starting to point a finger, then you catch him catching himself _right_ as he forms the gesture, instead closing his hand into a fist and sticking it at his side.

 

“...Don’t _touch_ anything.” He hisses, “I’ll be right back. Just…” tired, (maybe,) and frustrated, he gestures wildly to the kitchen and living room. “I don’t know. Make yourself comfortable, or whatever.”

 

As he walks away, you snicker. “I’m gonna touch _all_ your artwork,” you say.

 

“Do _NOT!”_

 

“I’m gonna!”

 

“Don’t you dare!!”

 

“Gonna wipe my stinky peasant fingers _all over ‘em.”_

 

There’s an angry groan as he heads for the door, and maybe the plan isn’t precisely to just start rubbing your dirty mitts all over everything in sight - however, the lack of a hovering chaperone presents a unique opportunity to explore at your leisure. Which you certainly _will_ spend taking a bit of time to get to know the kid who’s giving you a free room to sleep in.

 

While you often don’t really spend enough time with someone to pick apart the intimate details of their lives - let alone in the safety of their own homes - you do know that there’s usually quite a bit one can tell about a person from what’s inside their house. Setting aside all of the obvious signs of wealth, you find Kankri’s home is full to bursting with decorative displays and eclectic collections...none of which seem to scream “I belong to a pretentious little rich brat with an attitude problem.”

 

All over the walls, there are music- and movie-related displays that speak to the tastes of someone who is probably about your age - because if Kankri didn’t grasp the significance of a guitar signed by Jimi Hendrix, then the rest of this memorabilia probably isn’t his, either. You surmise this means that most of the collections belong to Kankri’s mother; and while her personal preferences aren’t quite in step with your own, the musician in you can appreciate the patterns regardless. You find an entire arranged display in the living room of framed albums, some of them signed: the US cover of Hendrix’s _Electric Ladyland_ pops out, his face immortalized in hyper-saturated oranges and yellows and reds. Aretha Franklin’s _Soft and Beautiful_ is a few frames over, her face young, smiling. The cover of _Sheer Heart Attack_ is signed, where visible, by Freddie Mercury. One frame to the left, there is a signed version of _Dreamboat Annie._

 

In the direction of the front door you hear voices - harder to hear at first, but then there’s a pointed screech from Kankri: “You _left_ me there! In the _middle_ of the bar! Do you know how much the three of you ended up tallying before you skipped your tab?! You’re lucky I managed to get it covered at all!”

 

“Aw, Kanny, don’t be such a stick in the mud. Shit all turned out fine, didn’t it?”

 

Must be his friends from the bar. Curiosity pulls at you, but...it seems very distinctly something that is a _Kankri_ problem, not a _Cronus_ problem. You keep admiring the collections.

 

Movie posters advertise everything from _Star Wars_ to _Soylent Green._ You recognize a theatrical release poster of _Aliens._ Most of them are older and tend to favor, based on what’s here, mostly science-fiction. There are a handful, however, that seem wildly out of place but are on display regardless. It doesn’t take very long to figure out that these ones all belong to a specific director, because - if you’re being honest - it really doesn’t take a lot to spot a Dave Strider poster. The nonsensical, over-the-top, low quality cut-and-paste arrangements stick out like a sore thumb. You’re not sure you’ll ever understand the appeal; you want to say that these were picked out for Karkat, but absurd advertising aside, Strider’s films are weirdly R-rated and not suited for childrens’ consumption; plus, the timeline would be all wrong.

 

It has you doubting Kankri’s mother’s tastes momentarily and you have to do a double-take of the album covers just to remember that these artifacts belong to the same woman. It doesn’t really make sense until you notice a collection in the entrance hall beneath one of Strider’s posters which seems almost artfully arranged to blend in with it - if in a totally out-of-step, macabre fashion. The biggest piece in the arrangement is a taxidermied crow, posed with wings outstretched as if in mid-flight. Sitting around it on the display table are a couple jars of formaldehyde, sealed tight, preserving a frog in one and a snake in the other. Some fossils and chunks of amber with bees in them are scattered around. If Kankri’s mother has _this many_ weird things collected in one spot, and they’re _this_ adjacent to a Dave Strider poster, you have to presume for the time being that she must - for _some_ ungodly reason - know him personally. And that he, using a thought process forever beyond your understanding, thought it appropriate to gift her with dead things in jars.

 

A cheap black frame with a scrap of lined paper apparently completes the set, showing an obvious short, personal message, all written in red pen and finished off with the director’s signature at the bottom. Yep; definitely knows the guy.

 

From the front door, you hear the conversation becoming increasingly uncomfortable. A young woman’s voice speaks first: “So who you got over that’s parked this ratty-ass Chevy in your driveway?”

 

Kankri hesitates audibly for several seconds before replying, “I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

 

“Nothin’s _ever_ my fuckin’ business, according to you.”

 

You pick up the framed letter out of curiosity as the bickering continues, just to read it. Some brain interpretation is required to fill the blanks when you can’t quite read this asshole’s third-grader handwriting, but you manage.

 

> _to the radiant_
> 
> _illustrious_
> 
> _timeless_
> 
> _inconceivably wonderful Maryam -_
> 
> _knock em dead you beautiful bitch._
> 
> _youre gonna be so FUCKING amazing._

 

It’s the name in the message that stops you.

 

_Maryam._

 

Maryam, like... _Porrim_ Maryam?

 

“Seriously though Kanny, who you got stayin’ over?”

 

“Nothing. _Nobody._ Please stop asking.”

 

You lift your head, eyes turning over to the frantic conversation happening in the doorway, and you squint. She had _kids?_ How the fuck is it that this uptight poser brat came out of _her?_ It’s not entirely impossible - people change, after all, but. _Fuck._ You only knew her for like, a few short days out of your whole life but she never, _ever_ stopped being cool. You’re sure of it. Especially after getting a good look at everything on the walls.

 

“Answer my question and I’ll go away,” says the voice at the door. You would be able to see more, but Kankri is aggressively guarding not only entry into the home, but also being able to see inside it - possibly not wanting the guests at the door to catch on that yes, he _does_ have a guest, and no he _doesn’t_ know him very well.

 

“Meenah, for the last time, I am not entertaining this avenue of conversation. Now if you have nothing else to discuss, I’m very busy and I must ask you to leave.”

 

“It’s the guy you hit up at the bar, innit.”

 

Kankri, in predictable fashion, bristles up. “I - I’ve _stated_ that I’m not going to tell you!”

 

“It _is!!_ You _slut!!”_

 

You hear enthused reactions, while Kankri visibly shrinks from the door, wilting under unwanted attention after a hand jabs out and punches him merrily in the shoulder. “Shit, girl, congrats! We didn’t think you had it in you!”

 

( _Girl._ )

 

(Something clicks. You don’t want to assume, but your reflexes tense.)

 

“Would you please stop jumping to conclusions?” Kankri groans, irritated. “Absolutely nothing happened. All he did was drive me home.”

 

“And stayed overniiiiight?”

 

“No!! He just showed up again this morning -”

 

Laughter. “Damn, he’s that thirsty, is he? Comin’ back for seconds?”

 

“I _beg_ your pardon!!”

 

“Could’ve sworn you were a virgin. You didn’t pay him, did you?”

 

More chuckles, but not from Kankri, who is - by all estimates - currently on fire, and sinking _fast._ “Meenah, this isn’t funny. I’m telling you that nothing happened.”

 

“Right, right. Nothin’ beyond you gettin’ the pillow princess treatment from a silver fox. You’re welcome, by the way.”

 

Kankri’s head snaps up. _“You’re WELCOME?!”_ He cries.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“For _what?!”_

 

“Uh, setting you up for the best night of your life, _obviously.”_

 

Okay.

 

As entertaining as it is to watch the poor kid get flustered, even you have a limit on permissible bullshit, and whoever is talking just crossed the threshold. Thankfully, Kankri doesn’t see you coming, distracted as he is by the people at the door. It’s not until you’re standing there with him that he even knows you’re aware of the situation, and by then it’s too late.

 

“Kankri?”

 

You firmly, casually pry the door out of his hand to pull it open, and you have an arm around him and there’s nowhere for him to go. He’s stiff as a board from the shoulders down; when he looks at you, he’s like a panicked horse, eyes rolling up because he seems afraid to turn his head away from the people at the door, but he has to acknowledge you somehow. He is shocked. Absolutely flabberghasted. So are the three individuals standing in front of you.

 

You squeeze Kankri’s shoulder - maybe rougher than needed. The last thing you need right now is for the kid to bolt back into the house. Standing on the front steps are, from left to right: a tall black man, all limbs and joints with big, cloudy, tight-textured hair. A black woman about Kankri’s height. Bright pink nails to match her glasses, hair braided in rows, tightly controlled until it’s allowed to explode in a flurry of thick coils at the back of her skull. A shorter asian woman, dressed the most conservatively of all three, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. All of them about Kankri’s age.

 

They all regard you with a certain amount of awe while Kankri seems to tremble under your hand. You smile meaningfully, meeting his eyes - ignoring the absolutely roiling waves of _rage_ inherent in the exchange.

 

“Are these people givin’ you a hard time?”


	6. - 1969 -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a supplemental in-betweenie because I'm having a slight snag with the next chapter but I wanted this part to go up, since it's basically finished.
> 
> although I have nothing against the ship, in this particular instance, this is not Pornus - not in the cards for this fic. the stars! can't do it! not today.
> 
>  
> 
> **cw: implied sexual assault, though brief, and immediately shot down. misogynistic + homophobic behavior, briefly, explicit and implied.**

“That motherfucker ain’t shit.”

 

The young woman speaking joins you at the table, after having lent you a completely unprompted hand in fending off a guy who was supposed to be your meal ticket into the next town - right up until he started getting way too handsy. Fingers snaking up your thigh, almost touching you in places that are  _ strictly  _ off-limits more than the rest of you already is. You poured your coffee on his hand, piping hot. She intervened when he started making a big scene, threatening to  _ beat your whore face in,  _ and suddenly she appeared, like a leather-cloaked valkyrie swooping down from the skies. The skin on your thigh is an angry lobster-y color and your hands are shaking, but the man is gone and weakness can be hidden. Mostly behind gnashed teeth and clenched fists.

 

She sits to your left, brown-skinned and black-clothed except for a jade tank top. She wears a minimal amount of jewelry, but has several piercings in her face, dark hair pinned back loosely, spilling down her shoulders. She’s absolutely resplendent - the kind of woman you would love to get to know, if only for a night.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

You pull back instinctively when she reaches to comfort you and immediately feel bad, but it’s nothing related to her. You’re just not ready to be touched so soon after an offense like that. “I’m fine.”

 

She seems to get the hint, drawing her hand away. You smack your styrofoam coffee cup down, realizing you haven’t let it go since emptying the contents all over Creepy Hands McGee. You start tearing out napkins to clean up the mess from what  _ didn’t  _ get all over his hand, or your thigh. The woman begins to help you again with a soft “here, I got you,” dabbing the coffee on the seat as you stand up.

 

“I said I’m  _ fine,”  _ you repeat, gruffer this time.

 

She looks up at you with eyes a rich, earthy shade of brown. “You need any medicine?”

 

Hands hot and eyes hotter, you glare at her, raising your voice a little. It draws unwanted attention from the other patrons. You don’t really care. “Are you deaf?! Piss off!”

 

She ends up waiting out the following tantrum, meeting you blow-for-verbal-blow with patience, and kindness, and some slightly aggressive pushing of the first aid agenda. Her tenacity surprises you - usually, a few sharp words and raising a little hell is all it takes to get anyone to back off, but not her. She persists until you finally break, at which point she asks the barista for emergency supplies, then escorts you to the employees-only bathroom. Presumably if she works here, given her present attire, she must have just punched out.

 

You don’t mumble a  _ thank you  _ until after poking your head out, admitting with no small amount of shame that you’re having trouble applying everything. You tell her it’s because the packets are hard to open, and the bandaging is too sticky, but after she comes back with more supplies (to make up for the fumbling mess you just made) and she’s in there with you, there’s no hiding the shake in your hands. You say it’s from the pain; that it stings like a bitch and you didn’t feel it before  _ because you know, fucking adrenaline, or whatever.  _ She never argues. Just gets on her knees, asking calmly that you ride up the leg of your shorts only as much as you need. You permit her to touch you where you are burned and nowhere else, and she respects that, treating the wound with no questions asked.

 

She asks you right there if you’re planning on going anywhere or doing anything for the night. You think she’s younger than you, maybe, but it’s hard to tell. She carries herself with such confidence and elegance that she  _ could be  _ older, and if that was what she claimed, you would believe her unquestioningly. Young, stupid, and lonely as you are, you say you’re just looking for a place to crash before going to the next town over.

 

“What town?” She asks. You tell her. “You know, I was actually planning on visiting a friend that way tomorrow,” she says. “Why don’t you stay the night at my place and ride up with me later?”

 

It’s the lie of a bleeding heart, but bleeding hearts are what feed your belly and pad your wallet. You could probably stand to take advantage. If she’s dumb enough to offer you hospitality, you would be all the more a fool for turning her down. In the end, you decide you could fare far worse than a leather-dressed Good Samaritan who prevented a guy from bashing your face in at the cafe. He’s waiting for you both outside, and it’s not like you don’t give him a piece of your mind, but she’s quick to imply that he’ll be missing some sensitive body parts if he doesn’t hit the bricks. He leaves very soon after, shouting homophobic insults. Your only thought that you can’t help having is how it would be unfortunate if she really is a lesbian, seeing as - if she shows any interest ever - you would have to turn her down on principle. You’re not even a woman, after all, let alone a lesbian.

 

She drives you to her apartment on the back of her motorcycle, your arms around her waist. Her hair whips against your cheek in the wind and she smells like spiced cloves. When the two of you arrive, she unlocks the front door and invites you in. Helps you to feel comfortable. Far more than you ever expect from a nobody you usually plan on forgetting by morning.

 

“I don’t think I ever got your name, honey.”

 

You are reticent. Since you started traveling so much, you try very hard not to give out your name. But you look back and catch her standing there - hands on her hips, expecting an answer - and something inside you shudders, begging for something,  _ anything. _ However brief it might be. You left home what feels like forever ago and it’s been so long. You won’t admit it to anyone, but you really miss your brother.

 

“It’s Cronus,” you say. Which is not  _ legally  _ true. But it’s become increasingly apparent over the years that legality is just another obstacle, and laws were meant to be broken. “Not that you give a fuck. What’s yours?”

 

She smirks. “Porrim.” She says, “Not that you’ll remember worth a damn.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: misgendering; alcohol/drinking; death in the family (mentioned, prominent)**
> 
>  
> 
> I think most of y'all have already guessed what that last one is about. (I'm very sorry.)

The scene so far as you are aware: one pleasantly fat asian gal, dragging in another long breath of smoke and exhaling. Black hair pinned in a messy updo. Her jeans are torn up at the knees and thighs in patches; her black tee has the word FUCK emblazoned across the chest in bold white print. (Followed, in a single column underneath, smaller print: “YOU, ME, HIM, HER, THEM, THIS, THAT”; then, slightly larger: “EVERYTHING.”) She keeps checking her nails and flicking her ashes in the bushes, acting for all the world like she has a thousand other things she would be better served doing.

 

One alarmingly tall and knobby-jointed black dude, wearing the most clothes out of any of them, including gloves - all of it a rich shade of purple or solid black. His hair is big, puffy, and completely unbound. He has extensive tattoo work on his neck, some of it creeping up over his jawline in intricate geometrical patterns. He looks perpetually tired, eyes sunken into their sockets, cheeks hollow. The lobes of his ears are stretched out by a large pair of white plugs with skulls on them. There’s  _ some  _ kind of design on his mouth, but you don’t take in his presence long enough to figure out what it is.

 

One average-height black girl, whose favorite color is definitely a loud, hot pink by indication of the following: long manicured nails, the rims of her glasses, her shoes, her earrings, her belt. Everything else she wears is gold and silver jewelry (mostly bracelets),  _ very  _ tight denim jeans, a black top sliced short at the midriff, and a studded black leather jacket. All of them about Kankri’s age. Two out of three of them looking at you as if you hold the key to a great secret. The black girl - who is front and center - looks you over with curiosity, then flashes a broad, charismatic smile. “Ain’t givin’ Kanny any harder a time than usual. Why? You in the middle of somethin’?”

 

All you do is smile back, fingers curling around Kankri’s shoulder. Your voice drops to an almost sultry purr. “Oh, it sounds to me like you’ve already got some idea of what we’re in the middle of,” you reply.

 

Kankri whips his head up like a shot just rang out. You don’t pay any attention to his face, but you can  _ feel  _ the heat of that glare.

 

The black girl laughs, clapping her hands in delight. Her wrist adornments jingle and clink with each gesture. “I’m lookin’ for confirmation though, old man, not some bullshit hemmin’ and hawin’.”

 

“Well.” You know for a fact that Kankri is giving you the  _ dirtiest  _ look as you posture yourself to look as sex-sated and enticing as possible. There’s an art to making it look effortless, really. But you’ve had years of practice. You strike a pose, make your expression, and wink. “We’ll just say maybe the kid here needs a fewwww more rounds before I’ve  _ fully  _ dislodged that giant stick up his ass.”

 

You look down with your eyes - briefly, just to assess the whole  _ stuck-up little prick ready to blow a fuse  _ situation - and find Kankri white-knuckling his hands together in front of his waist, forcing a tense smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. You’re probably going to pay for this later. You hope maybe he could forgive you for looking out for him.

 

The black girl holds her palm out to her asian friend. “Pay up! I  _ told you. _ ”

 

The asian girl puts on a scowl, then sighs and starts digging through her pockets for her wallet. Meanwhile, Kankri was in the process of losing his goddamn mind, but in a civilized manner. “Meenah, was there something you  _ actually  _ came here for, or were we simply planning to circulate false rumors about my sex life for the entire neighborhood to overhear?”

 

Meenah, front and center with her hot pink glasses and nails, replies with a full-lipped pout. “Kannyyyy, don’t be rude. Told you we just wanted to check on you. We’re just playin’, havin’ a good time; a girl’s gotta look out for her girls, yeah?” She closes the space between herself and Kankri with a playful jab at his arm. Kankri flinches back hard enough that you have to steady him, like he forgot someone was standing with him at the door. Oh, he did not like that at all.

 

“Fine. You’ve checked on me. I’ve answered your question and you even got to meet the son of a bitch in person. Are you satisfied?”

 

“Whooooaaaa!” Meenah laughs, her mouth forming into a little “O” from shock. She looks at you, now. “Damn, man, she is just  _ killer  _ defensive today! I’m so sorry. Usually we’re better about keepin’ the bystanders out of the crossfire.”

 

It takes you a hot minute to read the room. You decide, after an assessment, (mostly due to Kankri looking ready to punch someone in the jaw,) that maybe it’s best for everyone that these three leave on good terms, and you shrug. Rolling with the conversation is easy enough. At this rate, you’re sort of just the arm candy at the door, aren’t you? It’s an odd little flip in roles, but you can’t exactly say you hate it. “Well my mother was, in fact, a complete and total bitch, so I can’t exactly say I’m upset about hearing the truth.”

 

It gets a couple of chuckles; just from Meenah and the young man who’s with her, but still. The other girl is still totally checked out. She keeps looking at a watch on her left wrist, then peering at Meenah, and she always makes this little purse-lipped expression that you can tell is just  _ saturated  _ with disdain. Friends? Frenemies? It’s hard to tell.

 

“Shit, that bad, was she?” Says Meenah. There was something strange about her smile. The way the next question leaves her mouth sours the edges of you. “What’d she do?”

 

Before you can reply, Kankri: “I beg your pardon, but I hardly believe that’s any of your business.”

 

“I’m just askin’!” The young black man takes time to lean in, one gloved hand cupped by his mouth to hide it as he murmurs something close to Meenah’s ear. He’s so tall compared to her that he has to dip his upper body down low, hunched over her shoulder, one hand tucked into his jean pocket. Meenah swats him away with her nose curled and a coy grin, and he snickers as she berates him: “Aw, fuck that, man.  _ Kurloz.  _ You know better.”

 

You shrug again after a moment, irritated, but otherwise dismissive. You give Kankri’s shoulder a gentle squeeze; to show appreciation. “No, it’s fine,” you say. And then, to clarify: “It was years ago, and she’s dead now. Suffice it to say, I was not invited to the funeral.”

 

“Ouch,” replies Meenah, with a wince. “That’s cold.”

 

The asian girl snorts as she continues standing off to the side, visibly disinterested in everything about her current predicament. She says, in a judgmental sniff: “Nosy. Can we go now?”

 

At this, Meenah throws her an equally disappointed glance. “Okay, fine - Jesus, Dam. Cool your heels.”

 

“You know?” Kankri clasps his hands, smile still tense. “What a splendid idea. Considering I have things to do, and you have places to be, I think you should go. Now.”

 

Just to add weight to his claim, you flash Meenah, Kurloz, and “Dam” your best million-dollar smile. “Good meeting you kids.”

 

Meenah turns out to have the sense to know when she’s being iced out - thank God. She returns the smile, her expression almost business-like; again, leaving you with a weird feeling, and the thought that something  _ has to be  _ “here,” between Kankri and these three, but you’re not positive what the group dynamic is exactly, beyond Meenah obviously being the Queen Bee. And quite frankly, when you think about it, it really isn’t your business.

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll leave you merry old lovebirds alone.” She winks, backing away on Kankri’s front porch, flashing a peace sign. You hear Kankri starting to protest, but she interrupts with a quick, “Catch ya later, girl-frond!”

 

The sentence stabs him so sharp, apparently, that Kankri just elbows you back from the door, then shoves it shut with a firm  _ thump.  _ Perhaps wisely, as he turns and chains the locks, you take a few steps back to give the kid some space. You were keeping track of all the goddamn  _ ma’am-ing  _ in that conversation unconsciously; you don’t really think about it anymore for  _ you, _ not for many long years. But seeing Kankri, and how he reacts to it, your ears remember the old training. The similarities are fucking stunning. Now that you’re neither absorbed with the contents of his house, nor distracted by visitors knocking down the door in threes, your brain starts Tetris-ing all the little pieces together. You feel you might be getting a clearer picture of “Kankri,” in general. And the conclusions you begin to draw, while not unexpected, are surprising.

 

Would it be rude of you to ask? Would it be unfair? He at least seems confident enough to explore himself in the sphere of the public eye, but when applying that to total strangers, that could still mean fucking anything. It’s the not knowing that triggers your social caution, conditioned and honed from the roller-coaster ride that molded your own experience.

 

You wonder how long his opinion of his existence has been out of step with everyone around him. A month? A year? It would be a blatant lie to claim you were never one to put your nose in another’s business, but you  _ have  _ learned - at the very least - that there is a strict line dividing offensive queries from social gossip. But,  _ God,  _ you can’t say there’s not  _ some  _ curiosity. Kankri certainly wouldn’t be the first person you’ve met who was transgender, but it’s been such a long time since you were face-to-face with an opportunity like this one. Perhaps given your decisions, age, and abrasive nature in general, this rests at least a little on you. You’ve never been shy about how you aren’t exactly an easy pill to swallow, and in truth - whether someone was like you or they weren’t - things couldn’t exactly blossom if you never liked a person in the first place. You’ve never really “clicked” well with others.

 

Well, there was the  _ one.  _ You came up here mostly to find Eridan, but you also thought you might bid her a hello, if you were ever so lucky. (Just in case shit with Eridan went south, if you’re being honest.) And wouldn’t you know it: as if God finally decided  _ maybe  _ you could have something  _ good,  _ for once in your life, you lucked out with a connection so coincidental it’s almost hilarious. Now here you are, five feet away from her very own hellspawn, and there are heavy-handed marks of her existence all over the goddamn house.

 

Kankri takes this very opportunity to whirl around, snapping you out of your own head with a poignant scowl and a sharp tongue.  _ “You!” _

 

The abrupt, monosyllabic accusation makes you recoil. “What?!”

 

“What  _ precisely  _ were you trying to accomplish by hanging yourself all over me and saying those awful things?” He demanded.

 

Ah, yes. The payback from earlier. It begins now. (Also, going to quietly ignore the implication that sleeping with you is somehow a bad thing.)

 

“I’m sorry.” You try to appease him, wearing the easiest smile you can manage. Being playful. Anything to buffer some of that prickly bullshit Kankri seems to carry with him everywhere. “She sounded like she was getting pretty pushy, I figured...you know. Let ‘er hear what she wants to hear.”

 

“Well, what Meenah wants to hear and what she  _ should  _ hear are usually two very different things,” he says, ever stern in his tone. He throws his hands up. “And now she believes I’m casually fornicating with a man twice my age, so, sincerely,  _ thank you.” _

 

The phrase  _ casually fornicating  _ falls from Kankri’s mouth as easily as you would utter the word  _ fuck,  _ and you can’t help the snort that follows, or the chuckling. It’s  _ so hard  _ to believe this kid ever popped out of Porrim. You have no idea how she manages to raise this little shit without losing her mind.

 

“What’s so funny?” He snaps.

 

No point in playing coy here, you suppose. “Casually fornicating?”

 

Something flashes across his eyes. His hands migrate to his hips. God, if you weren’t certain he was a man, you’d suggest he’d make a damn good Mother Superior. “Yes? What about it?”

 

“It’s just -” It gets harder and harder to keep a straight face. It’s not even the funniest thing you’ve heard. Maybe it’s from how comically reactive he is. “- It’s a weird way to put it, is all.”

 

“Do you have a problem with my manner of speech?”

 

You raise your hands in a gesture of surrender, hoping he’ll take it. “No problem at all, chief.”

 

He narrows his eyes, still pinning you with all the suspicion he can hold in his body. A disbelieving  _ hmmmm  _ presses between his lips. Maybe a gesture of good will to get him to calm down?

 

“Were those supposed to be your friends?”

 

That seems to catch him. He doesn’t  _ relax,  _ per se, but his attention is at least deflected. “From the bar,” you add. In case it wasn’t clear. “Where I picked you up.”

 

Finally, Kankri’s posture sags. He  _ sighs.  _ “Meenah, Kurloz, and Damara. Yes.”

 

After a thought, you ask, already knowing the answer: “The ones that stiffed you with the bill?”

 

Kankri groans, reaching up and scratching his head anxiously, fingers combing back from his hairline. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He goes mobile; starts pacing the foyer in your direction. “Honestly it’s probably my fault.”

 

Weird conclusion for him to come to, in your opinion. “What, like you made them bounce out when you didn’t have the cash?”

 

“No...” Kankri frowns, not making eye contact. “It’s...I’m just not always the best with...no, you know what?” He sweeps his hands in a dismissive gesture, eyebrows furrowed together. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

There’s no point putting up a fight, though that whole reaction does have you raising an eyebrow. “...Alright.”

 

He goes quiet. You see him fidgeting, linking his hands together, wringing them about. You put your own in your pockets and try not to think about how much you really want a smoke right now, or a drink, hoping your posture is just non-threatening enough that Kankri doesn’t feel the need to keep defending to you for no good reason. Another alarm bell goes off in your head while you wait; the particular tension sitting on his shoulders right now is  _ scary  _ familiar.

 

“Anyway, I don’t know how you thought that was in  _ any  _ way helpful. And in the future, I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t attempt to dissuade them. Certainly not  _ like that.” _

 

There is only a slight twinge of disappointment. “Well, kid, I gave it a good ol’ college try and I don’t think it’s very fair to punish me for that.”

 

He looks up, regarding you with a bitter frown. “What do you want from me? A thank-you?”

 

“Wasn’t askin’ for nothin’,” you reply. “I’m just sayin’ I hear you loud and clear, won’t be doin’ it again. No need to get your knickers in a twist.”

 

It’s hard to gauge what  _ “satisfied”  _ looks like on Kankri. He hasn’t stopped sneering since...actually, apart from a couple instances in the past twenty-four hours, you can hardly recall a time where he  _ didn’t  _ look like an angry secretary. But you like to think that maybe the way his lips unpress and he gets a couple less wrinkles in his face means something you would dare to label  _ positive,  _ at least. “...Fine.”

 

“Fine,” you echo.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Yeah. You know, whatever.”

 

Again, an awkward pall stagnates the air. You try to wait it out, noticing for the second time that eerie echo in Kankri’s face, in the way he holds himself up - or, rather, how he  _ doesn’t. _ You  _ feel  _ how he’s gauging his options. There’s no way this kid’s  _ not  _ thinking about whether or not he can trust you. Like, there is a chance your instinct is wrong, but you very,  _ very  _ much doubt it.

 

But - perhaps not surprisingly - Kankri is more than a little reticent to make that leap, and ends up going off course yet again. “What time is it?” He looks around, briefly, not even waiting for an answer. You decide not to give him one; mainly since he seems to pull his own conclusions once he spots a wall clock somewhere behind you. “Oh, shoot. I have to pick up Karkat from school.”

 

Oh, boy. Being reminded of the anticipation of meeting a small child isn’t exactly... _ great,  _ but it’s not unmanageable. It’s just been a long fucking time since the concept of babysitting entered your peripheral. “Okay?” You try, honestly really wishing Kankri would just pop whatever fucking question he wants to pop. (Again, you’re  _ pretty sure  _ but you could be wrong!) The suspense is killing you. “So let’s go pick up your brother.”

 

He still looks pensive and distrusting; immediately shoots that down. “No, no, you should stay here.”

 

Your brow creases down the middle. “Why…?”

 

“Karkat isn’t great with meeting new people,” Kankri explains. “I should warm him up to the idea first. If he sees a stranger in the car when I go to pick him up, he may very well make an entire public scene, and I would prefer to avoid a visit from Child Protective Services.”

 

Well,  _ shit.  _ There goes the hope that Karkat is an  _ agreeable  _ small child. So it was potentially going to be a lot of shin-kicking and smarmy bratty words. If you’re especially unlucky, crying. Absolutely splendid. You might have to pull out all the stops for this one, provided you can remember them.

 

“He should behave once he’s home,” Kankri says. Sensing your displeasure, presumably. “I promise, I can handle him. He won’t be any trouble.”

 

You shrug. “I never said that you couldn’t.” Although, the phrase  _ once he’s home  _ sounds a little ominous. Nothing like the dread of dealing with an ill-mannered nine-year-old to put the fear of God back in you. You could barely deal with Eridan’s tirades when he was a kid; you have no idea how Porrim juggled raising a teenager like Kankri with a baby like Karkat.

 

Speaking of… “Actually, quick question.”

 

Kankri’s shoulders straighten up, curiosity flitting briefly over his features. “...Yes?”

 

“Is your mom working late?”

 

Something inexplicable hits Kankri in his entire body. The effect is immediate, and indescribably devastating. Like just speaking those words manifested a thousand pounds of bricks traveling at Mach 5 and caved his whole fucking chest in. But he says nothing. You thought until now that Kankri couldn’t possibly frown any more, but suddenly the fragile neutrality leaves him, and he looks… holy shit. What horribly strenuous family dynamic did you just step into. (Please say it’s  _ just  _ a weird family dynamic, you think.)

 

“Because, I’m assuming she’s not here, but she’s not picking up Karkat…?”

 

His fingers tangle together again. Kankri’s posture becomes...oddly still. Statuesque. He breathes in deep, and, oh, God, now you feel  _ your  _ face falling as his eyes go dim, and. Christ. You think about Porrim, about her gorgeous face, how she smiled and hugged you that night before you left, the advice she gave you - fuck. No.  _ No. _

 

“...My mother passed away after I graduated.”

 

_ Jesus. _

 

You’re not sure how your echoing expression and posture reads, but you can’t bring yourself to police your own emotional output - or lack thereof - while you try to process the news that Porrim is not here, nor will she be here,  _ ever. _ You’ve been told that you are very  _ cold,  _ when something hits this hard: like the surface of the ocean turning to a sheet of glass on a calm day. Deceptively shallow, almost hollow. Some have called it frightening, in its own way. It’s not exactly in your personality to be overly emotional, though. Particularly not with things that cut right into the parts of you that you keep the closest.

 

The most you can manage is a very stiff, curt, “Ah.”

 

Kankri looks like he may well flinch. There’s another beat of silence before you figure you might try the whole  _ expressing sympathy  _ thing. You want desperately to ask how it happened, but you settle instead for: “How long?”

 

He thinks about it, releasing another long sigh, eyes turned up as he counts. “Six...almost seven years.”

 

_ Fuck. _ You should have called. You could have looked her up in the phone book - hell, you remember  _ seeing her,  _ in every check-out line in every grocery store, no matter where you lived. Being a model isn’t like being a movie star, necessarily, but for fuck’s sake, her face was inescapable. You didn’t even fucking read  _ Vogue _ , but by God if you saw those eyes, that smile, you damn well paid good money to admire them. Didn’t even look at the articles. Always just skipped right to the pages for her shoot. Porrim striking her poses, dressed in some haute couture  _ crap  _ from head to toe, but she knew how to wear it and make it look like a million dollars. Always drop-dead gorgeous, smoking hot, and fucking celestial. Come to think of it, you  _ did  _ stop seeing her on the covers, after a while. You assumed she simply got replaced by some skinny little white blonde. Nowhere near as beautiful, but knew enough people in The Industry to get a good gig. One of  _ those  _ ungrateful bitches. You stopped looking for her after that.

 

You’re such an idiot. If anyone should have known, it should have been you.

 

“...I’m...so, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to go and pick up my brother now.”

 

The statement cleaves the tension much sharper than you expect. You blink like you’re waking from a trance to find Kankri moving with a swift purpose, striding across the house to the kitchen counter, where it would appear he had previously deposited his car keys and wallet. “I’ve showed you the guest room…” He continues, “so, you know, make yourself at home, and. Don’t touch the things I told you not to touch in the fridge. In fact, try not to eat very much at all; I’m going to start cooking as soon as I get back.”

 

Responding comes almost as an automatic response. You shunt off mentally processing the death of the woman who changed your whole fucking life in favor of concentrating on the present until Kankri has at least walked out the door. “How long are you gonna be out?”

 

“Not very.” He says, refusing to make eye contact. “Less than an hour. I assume you are capable of behaving like an adult for less than an hour.”

 

Another issue when you’re grieving: you’ve been told you also tend to get  _ really aggressive. _

 

“I’m capable of behaving myself for way longer than that, but thanks for the fucking vote of confidence, asshole.”

 

And, yeah, there it is. Kankri whipping around to glare at you when he’s halfway to the door, and you, standing there, like a dumbass, remembering that you’re talking to someone you’ve known for less than a day and who just told you his goddamn mother died. You rub at the bridge of your nose, exhaling, desperate for stress relief. A good stiff drink would be  _ really  _ nice right about now. “Look, not that - sorry.  _ Sorry.” _

 

Kankri grips his keys a little tighter, mouth twisting into a familiar scowl. “I don’t want you saying anything crass when I bring Karkat home.” He warns, “And don’t mention anything around him about mom. So whatever bullshit you apparently think you have to work out of your system, please, get that sorted while I’m away.”

 

For God’s sake! He’s not your designated caretaker.  _ Whatever.  _ You don’t have the energy to deal with Kankri’s militant hall-monitor crap, but there’s no spare power to retaliate, either, so all of that anger just sort of sits in your chest at a simmer while you roll your eyes. You glare right back.  _ “Yeah,  _ I fucking get it. I’ll be a good little church boy. As long as you don’t tell me I can’t smoke, I couldn’t give less of a shit at this point, alright?”

 

“As long as it’s not in the house, I don’t care where you smoke,” he fires back.

 

“Fine. Cool. Glad we’re on the same page, finally.”

 

“Sure. Finally.” Kankri opens up the front door after toeing into a pair of shoes, turning away. He seems to speak  _ about  _ you rather than  _ at  _ you. “If you leave through the front or the back, lock up when you leave and when you return. There’s a spare key under the potted plant in back and under the mat in front.”

 

He leaves with no room for argument, undoing all the locks to do so. The door thumps shut after a small rush of air. The doorknob lock turns with a click. It’s up to you to take care of the rest, but honestly, it’s the last thing on your mind right now. This little fucker lives in one of the safest-looking neighborhoods you’ve ever seen, anyway. It’s highly doubtful there’s been a single illicit drug deal within fifty miles of Kankri’s home; to say nothing of shit like kidnapping or murder. All they have to do around here is have a scared soccer mom yelling for her life and the cops will come running.

 

Instead, left to your own devices - and the isolation of  _ Me, Myself, and I  _ \- the first thing you decide to do is follow through on a smoke. Actually, no. That’s a lie. The  _ first  _ thing you do is go straight into the kitchen, open up the cabinets you suspected to be full of booze. Fucking  _ jackpot. _ And honestly? It might be for the better. You can’t imagine Kankri would know how to pick out even a decent bottle of wine. Oh, yes. Rifling through the selections on the shelves reminds you of sleeping over at Porrim’s apartment, smoking, drinking, shooting the shit about assholes you met on the road. In other words, her taste in liquor is written out  _ everywhere  _ in here.

 

You finally settle on a smoked whiskey, after a cursory glance at the label, grabbing a glass and pouring it full - no ice. The bottle and the glass go outside with you to the back porch, and only after you’ve downed a couple glasses in silence (one for you, one for her) do you break out the smokes.

 

Something strikes you after a while - possibly credited in part to the smoked whiskey you are  _absolutely demolishing_ in record time. But hey, you're old. You're sentimental; sometimes. You would like to think so. And you just got hit with the news that someone you actually cared quite a bit for, who you actually were kind of planning on rekindling some kind of friendship with perhaps, is most definitely unreachable because she's busy being six feet under, partying her way through the afterlife.

 

But the room you tried to go into...all the green. The classy decorations. The one Kankri looked about ready to murder you for going into. You're pretty damn sure that room is hers.

 

And you know you definitely still have enough time to go back and check it out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doot-doot-doot! I've never written children before! Doot-doot-doot!
> 
>  
> 
> **CW: alcohol/drinking; smoking; death; gendered slurs; misgendering**

It isn’t as though you immediately jump at the idea to go nosing through all of Porrim’s things, to be fair. You like having free room and board, after all - and at the end of the day, the point still remains that the primary reason you are here is to wait for Eridan to get back in town without paying extra money for the privilege. Pissing off Kankri carries the weight of potentially losing your current freeloading status; and he was clearly _very, very protective_ of Porrim’s room.

 

Technically, it’s possible that it’s someone else’s room, but there’s no rocket science required to put two and two together: Porrim is dead, Kankri is rearing his baby brother all by himself, and there are quite a number of guest rooms in the house, but only one of them is off-limits.

 

So you ruminate for a bit. Reminisce. You pour another full glass, flicking the ashes off your cigarette and staring down the bottom for a minute, lost in thought. Did she have a good life? Like - yes, she clearly had money, a nice house, two kids, famous friends, but did she find it _fulfilling?_ Benefit of the doubt here: in the handful of days you spent with Porrim, you never got the feeling she was the type of person to have regrets. She had plans, yes, but there was always time for living in the moment. Hell, that’s what she did with you, plenty enough times: always with a smile, with that little light in her eyes like she had a whole bag of tricks she couldn’t wait to share. Like the one time she kissed you (the one and _only_ time), after you’d both been drinking. It was sticky-hot in the apartment and neither of you could really sleep.

 

You drink half the glass; a toast to the memory.

 

She lit her cigarette on yours. Leaning in close, hair brushing your shoulder, and after a few drags she just _went for it._ Like, as soon as there was neither drink nor smoke in your mouth, her lipstick stuck to your skin. She was warm and soft and gentle; you were not used to _gentle._ She laughed at how _shocked_ you were, getting tenderly smooched by a beautiful lady in the dark. You only had one thing you could think to respond with; at the time, the idea of tackling crushing waves of (what you now know to be _dysphoria_ ) alongside a woman who obviously liked you? Was fucking _horrifying._

 

It was always different when you didn’t know a person. When you could lose yourself at least a little bit in sex or a relationship as, like, just another Tuesday, it was a distraction; maybe enjoyable, even. When people started taking a genuine interest, that was always the point where you dipped out. With Porrim, you never had a chance to get hooked on the concept; all because she took the first dive and left you floundering to catch up. (She managed to keep you anyhow, in her own way, you suppose.)

 

You didn’t even try. You looked at her as she asked what was wrong, eyes wide, and blurted: “I’m not a lesbian!”

 

The point with Porrim always seemed to be if she was mad or upset about something...unless that anger was protective, or led to something positive, she never showed it. She just - did this little flick with her hair, still leaning over you, cigarette between her fingers, and shot you the filthiest, playful look. “Oh, honey, neither am I.”

 

That could have been the end of the two of you right there, but it wasn’t. God knows, the shit that fell from your mouth after as you tried to save your own ass, she could have kicked you out no question: had you back outside, alone on the road again. Instead, as you spat bullshit line after bullshit line, Porrim only rolled her eyes. She stood to fetch more alcohol, some snacks, and her bong. “Cronus, shut the fuck up and get the lighter before I put you on trial for criminal shithead activity.”

 

Incidentally, that was also when your whole world opened up about how you didn’t have to be attracted to _just_ men or _just_ women. Maybe it was the pot, or because by that point you had come to appreciate Porrim’s late-night talks in general. But the way she presented it to you...your mind was fucking _blown._ It would be another...oh, what was it, a week, maybe? ...Before you would look at her, praying it wouldn’t change her opinion of you as you said, “So funny story; remember I told you that one night how I’m not a lesbian?”

 

You finish the rest of the glass. You never did get around to properly thanking her.

 

As you look back into the big, lavish house that Porrim lived in, where you are alone with no supervising school marm to stop you, the bottle of whiskey is held aloft. There’s really not that much left, so...lips to the mouth, tip it all back...down the hatch. You check the time on your watch, taking stock of how long until Kankri gets home. Still time enough, if you’re quick about it; especially since you’re pretty certain the door was left unlocked and you’re fairly good at picking out the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. So long as nothing is left out of place, who has to know? She was Kankri’s mother, but goddammit, she meant something to _you,_ too. Surely you deserve to give her space a little hello? Fucking shake hands with the echo of her presence, since you’ll never have anything else, now. You don’t have the energy to explain your relationship to Kankri, either. You very much doubt he’ll even listen.

 

Well, that settles that. It’s always sort of been your motto that it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

 

The empty whiskey bottle comes with you to go right in the recycling, because Kankri actually has separate recycling, it would seem. And - after some pondering - you think, fuck it, maybe you should at least _pretend_ you’re trying if you’re going to pay your respects. You fix up your glass full with ice water like it will make any difference at all, then walk over to the room. Your mind is pretty much steeled for the deed already by the time the entryway is staring back, silent and steadfast. The overwhelming sensation is like looking at a monolith watching over a grave. Nobody has been in this room for seven years - _seven years._ But it strikes you, as you put your hand on the knob and stop, that the sliver of evidence you saw left the impression of a space that was just waiting for its occupant to come back home.

 

That thought is the one that gives a pause. An idea flashes through your brain: _Maybe I really shouldn’t be doing this._

 

You turn the knob, belaying that hesitation. Second thoughts are wishy-washy; time feels wasted when you spend too much of it _hemming and hawing,_ as Meenah phrased it.

 

But when the door creaks, finally swinging open, and you flick the little light switch on the wall, you’re stopped at the threshold again. An eerie feeling wrenches your insides as you survey the bedroom. Again the quiet, nagging sensation of _I shouldn’t be in here; I shouldn’t be in here,_ because it feels like once the commitment is made and you cross that line, you’ll be disturbing something that is borderline sacred.

 

Porrim’s room reminds you a bit of her old apartment. It’s literally like looking at her taste in color and style, but if she had _money,_ which honestly makes perfect sense, and is so very much like her. Everything is painted, draped, or accented with a rich emerald color and small touches of gold; anything that can’t be gold or green is made of wood, not metal. Cherry? No - Not quite. Whatever it is, it’s dark, polished, reddish in hue, and dominates every piece of furniture. You can tell just from assessing the space that everything in here is probably a custom. The whole theme screams _elegance,_ which - truly - there was never a doubt Porrim was always as beautiful as she was classy. Still, she wasn’t a delicate shrinking violet, either. And you see touches of those harder edges of her everywhere: some self-indulgent studs and spikes glued to her vanity mirror in a pattern of her own making; framed posters of bands she liked (some you know, and some you don’t); pieces made of pure black leather or metallic prints oh God that is her jacket hanging on the endpost of the bed. That is _the_ jacket. The same one from when you met.

 

Holy shit. That punches your gut way harder than expected.

 

You recognize the soft shine of the leather, the pins stuck in the lapels. It’s older than the last time you saw it: worn down, broken in. But still beautiful. Still undeniably _hers._

 

Approaching the article of clothing feels like revering a reliquary in a chapel. In a way, for you, maybe it is. Porrim undoubtedly left an unforgettable mark, looking back; you have _so few_ people you care to actually call “friends,” particularly before you committed to hormones and surgery. She never judged you for not forging lasting connections, though. Never judged very much at all, in fact, unless it was something well and truly stupid.

 

Your fingers brush gently over leather once the jacket is within reach, ghosting over some of the buttons and pins. There are some new ones among the batches that you don’t recognize, but all the ones you do remember are still there. A few of them look like they’ve been rigged on after the backs have fallen off; they sit differently on the coat, compared to the fresh ones that are still in one piece. It’s really starting to feel like you’re having a moment; Seeing them brings a bit of a smile to your face. _Hey there, you fucking cunt,_ you think affectionately. (You were the only one ever allowed to call her such things without getting a broken nose.) _How did you like it, living in this big house? Were you still the same punk bitch I met at the coffee house? How much did you clean up once you had kids? Did you ever tell them about the things you used to do?_

 

The leather creaks and creases softly under your fingers as you rub over the collar. No answers will ever come, of course...but it’s at least some sort of closure, what you’re doing, right here. God, you can just _see_ her still wearing this. It’s truly amazing she didn’t go to the fucking grave with it.

 

You have that thought right as you decide you really want to get a better look at what she’s added to the lapels.

 

You pick up the lovingly displayed article of clothing.

 

You immediately regret it.

 

The half-shredded leather riding jacket of Porrim Maryam is placed back in the spot where it was found, though perhaps less artfully so. It leaves you with a vague sense of horror to consider the fucking mental gymnastics involved in draping it over the endpost _just so,_ to hide where the material has been violently frayed - or, in some places, scraped wide open. It feels false. _Wrong._ It’s such a blatant and open denial of reality that it legitimately turns your stomach as you take quick steps to exit the room.

 

You look back inside as you turn off the light. The pristine nature of its upkeep now seems less incidental, more performative. A hollow, dreaded weight crashes down on the time-freeze of her room as you close the door.

 

You go into the kitchen, finishing off your water to chase it with another drink from the cabinet. The process to initiate the time-honored tradition of beating back your sorrows with booze and alcohol is interrupted when you hear two car doors outside, followed by the turning of the lock. Realization hits like a bullet.

 

 _Shhhhhhit_ that’s right you completely forgot Kankri is bringing a _small child_ home.

 

The front door swings open just as you shove the briefly stolen bottle of gin back in the cabinet. (So sorry about that, Ginny. Parting is such sweet sorrow.) As casually as possible, you put on the act that you were minding your own goddamn business. There’s squabbling by the front door as you rinse out your glass and turn it upside-down in the sink.

 

“But it’s _Friday!_ And I have the _whole weekend!”_

 

“So you would rather put off finishing your work for the very last minute, which _always_ puts you in a frenzy, than get it over with _now_ and enjoy your weekend?”

 

 _“Duh,_ obviously. And I don’t _freak out_ when I do it on Sunday. You say that about all my school stuff.”

 

A defeated sigh. “Karkat, do you remember last year when you waited until the night before your presentation for that book report? - Shoes _off,_ young man.”

 

The tiny voice following Kankri’s, after a distasteful groan, is positively adamant. “That was different! I didn’t even _wanna_ do that dumb project! Also, the ones she wants me to do this time, those books are for babies. My idea's better.”

 

“I understand that you were not in agreement with the selection of reading material, but we have already discussed how you cannot do a _book report_ on a _television show.”_

 

“Why not? After this weekend it’s like, the _last_ week before school’s out. Who’s gonna care?”

 

Your lips curl up into a smile. It really does sound just a little bit like Danny when he was a kid. Who the hell is this snarky little hellbeast that just ran in?

 

When you make eye contact with Karkat, he stops just short of the open space leading to the living room - and, vaguely, the kitchen where you are standing. Kankri is just behind him, already exhausted. His little brother is about a foot and a half shorter (two feet, maybe) and with browner hair, not quite as matte-black as Kankri’s. He’s a fat little brat, emphasized further with the baby chub clinging for dear life to his cheeks. Still, you can see the sibling similarities right away: immediately among them, beyond skin tone, is how his eyes are the same reddish-brown and their noses have the same shape.

 

There’s a beat that hangs in the air where nothing is quite said: Karkat stares you down with a scowl permanently creased into his angry little cherub face, Kankri seems preoccupied with assessing his brother’s reaction to your presence, and you are a bit busy putting on your best Functional Drunk hat. To your credit, this is not the most inebriated you have ever been. But “sober” is certainly not high on your list of personal descriptors, after killing a whole fat bottle of whiskey on the back porch. It is, however, the most you have ever been sauced around a little kid. You anticipate that whatever direction Karkat swings with his behavior, it will be one hell of an interesting night. Just hopefully not the kind with a lot of yelling.

 

When eye contact goes unbroken for several seconds, you quirk an eyebrow. Start out simple. “What’s up, kid?”

 

Karkat, with no hesitation: “Nothing is _up,_ but the number of minutes I have for stupid questions is still zero.”

 

Oh actually, it turns out, you were worried over nothing!

 

Kankri shouts indignantly; meanwhile, you just _grin._ For his transgressions, the kid gets a berating line from his brother: “Karkat, you _know_ better.”

 

Karkat just turns and looks up at him, vaguely pointing. “Is this the dude?”

 

“Yes, this is _the dude,”_ groans Kankri. “His _name_ is Cronus. He’s our neighbor’s brother!” He gestures between the two of you. “Cronus, this…” Kankri looks entirely regretful, “...is my little brother Karkat.”

 

Karkat looks back at you and squints again, sizing you up. _“Danny’s_ big brother?”

 

Oh, hell, it’s _really weird_ hearing a little kid calling him _Danny,_ but. “Sure as shootin’.”

 

He peers a little harder. “You look like a pirate.”

 

“Do I?” You question, “Why’s that?”

 

“Butt-ugly with a lot of hair.”

 

 _You_ think this is hilarious. Kankri, significantly less so. _“Karkat!!”_

 

“Like a gorilla.”

 

“Karkat that is _enough,_ please don’t be rude!”

 

“A magnificent, hideous, odious gorilla.”

 

You _laugh._ “Oh, not even close, kiddo!” You say, smiling ear-to-ear. “You know what a musk ox is?”

 

Kankri makes wide eyes, watching you with abject horror as Karkat says, “No.”

 

“They look like big hairy cows with funny horns,” you explain. “Walking carpets. You could make a coat out of ‘em. I got hair like a musk ox.”

 

Karkat watches you with rapt attention. “Okay, but do they _stink,_ though.”

 

“Oh, so much,” you say. (You really have no idea, but fuck’s sake, he’s _nine._ You just gotta sell it.) “The smelliest. Like old garbage in a mudslide.”

 

Kankri lets out an audible noise of disgust, but you see the light flashing in Karkat’s eyes. He doesn’t _smile,_ which leaves you wondering if anyone left in this damn house is capable of so much as a smirk, but you know the glimmer of piqued interest when you see it. “Kankri would say that’s animal cruelty.”

 

“What, having musk ox hair?”

 

“No, making the coat, _duh._ Not like anyone would buy it, if it smells.”

 

“Well, what your brother don’t know is it’s not animal cruelty if it’s man-made.”

 

Kankri, from behind his brother, straightens up tall as his eyes go _wide._ Suddenly he is looking at you, and he’s...what the fuck is that. Panic? Anger?

 

“First off, _ew.”_ Says Karkat, nose scrunching up. “Second? Kankri’s my _sister.”_

 

(oh fuck.)

 

“Shit, you’re right.” You ignore the _scathing_ look from Kankri as you flash an easy smile. “My bad. You just...have...such a handsome big sister.”

 

Karkat’s eyebrows compress together and _wow,_ yeah, _there’s_ the full-on family resemblance. They have the same kind of crunchy, displeased expression. “...You’re _weird.”_

 

“Karkat?” Kankri’s tone is oddly high-pitched and markedly urgent. “Dear? I need to lay out some house rules for our new guest, so if you insist on not starting your homework, why don’t you go find something to do until dinner’s ready?”

 

He turns and cranes his head up. You can definitely see that the last thing this kid wants is to be ordered around; you are beginning to get an idea of what probably happens in this house on a regular basis for the past six years or so.

 

Karkat scrunches his nose again, then _sighs,_ dramatically rolling his eyes. “Fiiiine. I’m gonna go watch _Doug._ Don’t let the gross old musk ox stink up the house.”

  
Based on the way Kankri’s shoulders release tension following, the two of you just got off easy. You, however, are not so lucky. But there is now an ace up your sleeve, which you cling to as Kankri again scolds Karkat’s manners before descending upon you in the kitchen with that very familiar glare. “Outside.” He hisses, with barely-controlled propriety, _“Please.”_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dual obviously has an outdated view on gender stuff at one point, though given the context here, I think that can be forgiven.

While Karkat is turning on the television and switching channels to Nickelodeon, Kankri is all but corraling you to the back porch. He doesn’t lay on hands, thankfully, but  _ damn  _ does the kid know how to push and shove. Drill sergeants  _ wished  _ they were as determined as this pretentious little shit; all part of a sort of nagging, holier-than-thou behavior you are very quickly learning to expect. Once the two of you are outside, he pulls the sliding door shut and whips around - unsurprisingly prepared to give you an earful.

 

“First of all -”

 

You interrupt him before he can start, fingers raking through your hair, peering sharply at him. “So were you gonna  _ warn me, _ or was I supposed to just pick up on that by accidentally outing you to your baby brother?”   
  


Whatever he was about to start on, he freezes in place. Kankri regards you with a startled look, all the fight knocked right out of him. “Ex - Excuse me?!”

 

You close in a couple steps, hands boxed in front of your chest in meaningful gestures. “The ma’am-ing.”

 

“The  _ what?!” _

 

“The she/her/sister/girlfriend shit.” You are only vaguely aware that you are rambling, but are there any fucks left to pluck from the giving fields? Absolutely not. “The thing you  _ probably  _ should’ve let me in on before you left. The crap you were pulling at the bar. What is your fucking angle? Do your friends know? Your neighbors? Because if I’m gonna be staying here for a few days, I need to know who not to tell and who’s being a prick, so I can avoid being thrown in jail for assault.”

 

Kankri’s eyes widen with alarm. “I, I - wha - wh-why on Earth would you get incarcerated?!”

 

The tone of your voice is perhaps a  _ touch  _ darker than you were shooting for. “‘Cause if someone’s intentionally fucking you up in the head over your authenticity within earshot, I’m like to test the cut of my right hook on their  _ fucking face.” _

 

Kankri goes very still, apart from the slight recoil he does when you move in. The steps may have also been a little larger than you intended. Still, the commitment is genuine, which is hopefully apparent in the fervor of your mildly intoxicated emotional aneurysm. He has his hands pressed together again within moments, and it takes time for him to answer. “I...I f, for...I forgot.”

 

His voice is small. Frantic, maybe? He thus far seems to swing between flying completely off the fucking handle, and having an infuriatingly strong cap on his emotions. This appears to be more of the latter; which makes it  _ very hard  _ to gauge how he’s  _ really  _ holding up. “I’m - I apologize. I didn’t think you’d...I should have told you, but we, uh, got off-topic, and I was already running late, so…” Kankri starts to gnash his teeth against his bottom lip, briefly breaking away to look over his shoulder into the house. Watching him stutter and start, you do relax - if slightly. It helps to recall what happened before he left an hour or so ago, and what you expected he might spill out, but he didn’t. It figures. Honestly, you can’t blame him; he doesn’t know you, either.  _ You  _ sure wouldn’t have trusted a total stranger. It was a miracle you even told Porrim.

 

He looks back at you, hands clasped, brow furrowed. “...Please don’t tell my brother. About any of it. He’s still young and I would prefer not to pile on any undue stress.”

 

You release a short sigh, bleeding out some of the tension; hand on your hip, scratching your beard, your hairline. “Yeah, alright. I got that much. What about your neighbors?”

 

“Nnh...no. None of them,” says Kankri, with a shake of his head.

 

So Dan was out too, then, when he got back. “Your shitty little friends?”

 

Kankri’s frown presses tight. “...They...uh, well, they  _ know,  _ but -”

 

When you reply, it’s with a growl. “So them and Queen Bee motherfucker are just a huge bunch of dicks. Got it.”

 

Kankri’s expression immediately morphs into a bitter sneer. “No, that’s. That’s  _ just  _ Meenah.”

 

“Ah,” you say. “Rephrase. Queen Bee motherfucker is the  _ hugest bitch in the hive.  _ Got it.”

 

“No, she - it -” Kankri shakes his head, hands coming up to press against his temples. He dips his head with a long groan, eyes cast down. “It’s, it’s complicated.”

 

Bullshit. “Ain’t nothin’ complicated about callin’ you what you are,” you grunt. “Either she does or she doesn’t. Sounded to me like she wouldn’t even try, so, bottom line is she doesn’t.” You curl your fingers in a fist, holding it up chest-level. “I’ll sock ‘er,” you offer, and you mean it. “Right in the jaw.”

 

_ “No please don’t!”  _ Kankri throws his hands up, grimacing. “Please?  _ Please  _ don’t.”

 

The punching hand doesn’t go down; mostly because, despite his protests, you’re still debating the concept. It could be so  _ satisfying.  _ Kankri lets out a small huff, carding his fingers through his hair. He looks at you, and you’re not sure if it’s intrigue or concern that he wears. “You know, you are being...surprisingly accepting,” he says. “I must say, I surely didn’t expect this.”

 

You purse your lips. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit how much of a dick I can be, but there are literally...so many other things I could fuck with you on, if I really wanted to.”

 

“My.  _ Thank you,”  _ he groans. (You have to laugh. Was that actually a  _ pout?  _ It was  _ adorable.) _

 

Arms crossing over your chest, you chuckle: “Anytime, Poindexter.”

 

He grouses and fusses (“I’ve told you it’s  _ Kankri,”  _ he complains), fidgeting with his hands again. In the interim, thinking back to the triplets at the door, you tilt your head curiously. “Why d’you even hang out with ‘em, anyway, if they don’t respect you?”

 

Kankri flubs his syllables yet again. He is  _ very  _ off his game right now, apparently, because this is the first time you’ve noticed where he isn’t speaking like he threw up a thesaurus with a side of PC Culture. “They respect me!”

 

More bullshit. You count off on your fingers, eyebrow arched. “They don’t call you like they should, they abandoned you at a bar -  _ after,  _ mind, because I  _ did  _ pick this up - suggesting you walk up to an ugly old man and start hitting on him? That’s two strikes; I’d even argue three. Do you even know what could’ve happened to you?”

 

“I beg your pardon, but I was fully cognizant of the risks involved.” He growls, eyes turning sharp. “All they suggested was that I merely choose someone at random and try my luck. To - to be sociable, for once. I  _ wanted  _ to do it.”

 

Wait. Really? He...picked you by choice.

 

_ Huh. _

 

His speech hiccups a moment before he adds: “And Damara insisted I should try it with my preferred pronouns! She implied it might be freeing for me.”

 

Holy Mother of God, the clusterfuck just gets worse the more you hear. You rub some of the distress from your eyes, inhaling deeply, hands together in a mock gesture of prayer. “Kankri? The next time you wanna hit on anyone at a bar? You need to vet that the people you’re bringing with you are gonna  _ stay  _ with you. I don’t fully know how it is nowadays ‘cause I haven’t  _ personally  _ hit on a hot piece of ass in a  _ while,  _ but a kid like you? Pre- _ everything?  _ When I was  _ your  _ age? Walking in, being yourself, and hitting on a surly old drunk for funsies was a one-way ticket to the fucking pearly gates.”

 

His face, as you go, very slowly begins to change. You don’t really register it right away, but it starts out small. His eyes widen, then narrow, brow furrowing  _ deeply.  _ He seems to study you, mouth forming a confused little “O,” muttering syllables under his breath (vaguely a bewildered echo of  _ pre-everything _ ) before looping right back around to shock.

 

“Furthermore, frankly - and I’m only giving your friend the benefit of the doubt for your sake - if you’re gonna get your advice on social boundaries, I sure as  _ shit  _ wouldn’t make a habit of getting them from someone who doesn’t understand the consequences of talking to a dick-swingin’ dude who just  _ magnetizes  _ his eyes to your tits and what? What.”

 

Kankri’s jaw has dropped wide open. He looks you up and down while you stare back, perplexed. “ _ What?!”  _ You cry. “What the fuck are you -”

 

You catch him. Oh, right in the act. Doing  _ The Once-Over.  _ And the only reason you’re not completely insulted by the obvious sticking points for his eyes is because you can  _ hear  _ him gasping in awe when it clicks - if tentatively. Well; you  _ were  _ wondering how long Kankri’s been exploring these avenues about himself. Based on this entire situation, the guesstimation has turned into an almost certain assumption of “not very long.”

 

“Are…Are you -?”

 

Kankri does it again, like his brain can’t quite process the way everything fits. How everything on  _ you  _ fits. He only gets a free pass because you assume (pretty damn rightly, perhaps) he’s never met another trans person before. If you weren’t so sure he was like you, it would be different. In this case, it’s just an annoying sore point that you’re willing to gloss over, just this once.

 

“Am I what?” You try to break the tension, hands on your hips. Posing. Looking confident. “The hottest middle-aged man from here to Montana? Yes. Yes I am.”

 

For once, he is silent. Totally dumbstruck. The playful smile you were holding drops, a little. Maybe you’re only okay with letting it go up to a point. “Boy, didn’t realize you loved the taste of flies so much,” you drawl. “Close up shop on that yap of yours, will ya?”

 

“Oh, I…!” Kankri actually...holy shit. He covered his fucking mouth. “I’m so sorry. That was incredibly rude, wasn’t it. I didn’t - I didn’t  _ mean  _ it, and believe me I would never consciously insinuate you were in any way lesser because of your...uhhh. Your uh…”

 

_ GOD,  _ if he weren’t so characteristically obnoxious, this would almost be endearing. You can’t even be a hundred percent mad about how badly he’s fucking this up, because it’s just...it’s relieving to be informed that Kankri has the  _ capacity  _ to fuck up. Like,  _ thank Christ,  _ he makes mistakes, and when he doesn’t have a splintered pole up his ass about the whole affair, he’s even just a little bit  _ normal. _ Who is in charge of the fabric of the cosmos? Who do you need to bribe to get this kid to loosen up? Because this - you would dare to venture this is  _ tolerable.  _ When he’s acting like a guy his age should, instead of a twenty-something kid trying to squeeze his whole brain out ten years early.

 

You put your hands up, pacifying him just a bit. “Look, don’t bust your whole brain to pieces on the details, please. If you’re going to turn my bodily anatomy into some entire rigamarole, I’m gonna get pissed.”

 

Kankri quickly snaps his mouth shut, shaking his head. “Yes - yes. You’re right. That...yes. That would be. I um.”

 

It’s difficult not to smirk at least a  _ little.  _ It’s been a while since you’ve robbed this many words out of someone. “It’s fine, kid. Just get all the shock and awe out of your system now, is all I ask, yeah?”

 

“Mmm.” He bobs his head in a quick nod, eyes down. His hands go up to the sides of his face, then up in his hair. Kankri can’t seem to decide whether your face or the porch tile is more interesting; you would assume this is a no-brainer (you’re obviously sexier than a slab of terracotta), but he is really struggling. He continues to, even, until something occurs to him. He glances up.

 

“How...I. When did you figure it out?”

 

Your upper lip curls. “Nnnnnyeh. Does it really matter? Like I said, I’m not about to go and give you shit for it.”

 

Kankri curls his arms around the front of him. “So...when you called it ‘authenticity’...?”

 

Did you say that? Shit, you did. Wow. You didn’t even realize, and it makes your face fall somewhat. It’s still sore, after all - you  _ just  _ got done spying on the Shrine of Maryam before Kankri got home.

 

“Yeaaaah...uh…” You press one hand at the back of your neck, working out a knot in your spine. Damn, now  _ you’re  _ the one with the eye contact problem. “It’s like, uh, if you know you’re a guy, then you’re a guy, and fuck what everyone else says, or whatever.” Keeping your face straight is very difficult, suddenly - wow. There’s already enough scowling in this house just with Kankri and Karkat. “That’s what your mom called it. Authenticity.”

 

Kankri gets so shrill so fast that it stabs your brain directly through your eardrums. “...DID YOU  _ KNOW  _ MY  _ MOTHER?!”  _ He exclaims, “LIKE,  _ PERSONALLY??” _

 

* * *

 

It has been three and a half hours and Kankri is still listlessly piloting his body through the motions of prepping dinner, just like he’s been piloting through walking around the rest of the house, locking himself in his room for half of those three hours, talking to his brother, and arranging for Karkat to spend the weekend with a friend just up the street - because that was what Karkat decided he wanted, apparently. You get the feeling, from the surprise on the kid’s face and the way Kankri muttered absently into the receiver, that the one in charge of weekend plans isn’t usually so forgiving about last-minute arrangements. But Karkat certainly wasn’t willing to question his good luck - you even personally gave him a farewell after he stuffed an overnight backpack full of supplies, telling him: “Run while you can and never look back, kiddo.”

 

He gave you a salute on the way out. (“Smell ya later, dirty old Musk Ox.”) Kankri told him not to run in the street and to watch out for cars.

 

Now he’s cutting peppers with a sour, semi-shell-shocked expression, and you fear you may have either accidentally broken him, or made him incredibly angry. It doesn’t help matters much that after he found out A: that you are trans, and B: that you were a personal friend of his mother’s, he subsequently discovered you had C:  _ quite the shine going.  _ (Come to think of it, that might have factored into Kankri’s decision to send Karkat off for a sleepover.) And then D: (perhaps the worst transgression of all, given his attitude) that you went into Porrim’s room. That little detail might be the most disturbing to you, personally. It implies that the second he went into that room, he sensed that just one slight thing was out of place and he knew  _ someone  _ had disturbed the sanctuary. Far be it from you to be an expert on positive coping strategies, or whatever - Mister Fucked His Way Across The States In His Youth - but that can’t be in  _ any  _ way healthy.

 

You attempt to approach him for the third time in as many hours. He’s locked up all the liquor (a final farewell to Ginny), and the last couple of times you tried to talk with him, Kankri completely ignored you. Apart from a curt “I appreciate the thought, but I am quite busy, thank you,” that is. Or something like that. You don’t remember very well, but the point is, he’s been icing you pretty hard with that cold shoulder.

 

“Hey.”

 

He doesn’t even look up as you enter the kitchen. It smells of chopped onions and spices; a big pot of rice has been put on to boil. He’s got that singular mop of wavy black hair on the top of his head pinned back at the front by a barette to keep it out of his face, sweater sleeves rolled up, and he just goes about his business, radio playing on a station you aren’t fully listening to.

 

You reach out to try and - fuck, you don’t know - maybe just get him on the shoulder, all companionable and such. The minute your fingers touch, though, he physically shrugs you off, mouth curdling into a scowl. “Do  _ not  _ touch me.”   
  


You groan just a little. “Look, all I wanted to say is I’m sorry.”

 

“Hmmm.” He turns around, taking a bowl full of the onions he’d cut up previously, using a wooden spoon to scrape them into a buttered pan. It immediately starts sizzling. “I suppose your apology is accepted.”

 

Aaaaand that tears it. Magic’s gone; he’s being a brat again. Your face falls flat. “...Are you gonna be a chilly little prick the whole time I’m staying now, or is this arrangement temporary? I’d like to know maybe, uhhhh.” You mime checking your watch, sneering. “You know, soon-ish, so I can assess how I should react whenever you deign to grace me with your fucking presence.”

 

“Oh, you know, I just have not made up my mind quite yet!” Kankri stirs the onions around a bit through the clarified butter in the pan, giving the spoon a couple taps before resting it on a holder by the stove. “Perhaps I’ll give it some consideration and inform when I’ve made my decision. I’m certain it’ll come to me by the time dinner is ready.”

 

Rolling your eyes, you ask: “What part of the last four hours are you acting the  _ most  _ mad about, so I can at least issue a more formal apology on notarized paper? Since clearly a regular sincere one just isn’t hitting it for you.”

 

He flicks water from his hands into the sink after washing them again, grabbing a BIG-ASS CHEF’S KNIFE from the block. The blade makes an audible  _ shhhhhING  _ as it slides out, and you can’t exactly say it didn’t make your heart leap to your throat for a minute. You know, due to the scathing look of simmering homicide in his eyes. Literally there is a moment where you recoil from the waist up and think  _ Oh, Fuck Me, this motherfucker just might kill a dude.  _ But all he does is benignly carry it with him to the cutting board on the island with a few cuts of chicken, smacking it down on the countertop and glaring.

 

“I’m not quite sure, Cronus!” Exclaims Kankri. “Why don’t we go down the list, starting with your conduct at the door in front of my friends and ending with you barging in on my mother’s room after I  _ explicitly  _ told you not to?”

 

Without really thinking about it, you snap back: “So accidentally getting drunk around your little brother; that  _ is  _ or  _ is not  _ on the list?”

 

Kankri, with teeth clenched, snarls his reply.  _ “Obviously  _ I am including it. And don’t insult me with any nonsense about ‘accidentally,’ you knew I was coming home with him.”

 

“I was having a moment!” You cry, hands going up in frustration. “It’s not like I would intentionally get shit-faced around a little kid!”

 

“No, of course not! You just conveniently forgot about him before beginning the process of shredding through my liquor cabinet.”

 

_ “Momentary lapse in judgment; _ won’t happen again! Also, YOUR liquor cabinet?! That’s gotta be the funniest joke you’ve ever told. Every single thing in there was your  _ mother’s.” _

 

Kankri visibly bristles, and when he picks up the knife, you’re genuinely surprised that the only thing he does is use it to start cubing raw chicken into thick pieces. “Like you would even know what my mother liked to drink.”

 

Oh, it’s going to be like that now, is it? You put your hands down on the counter. You really hope Kankri can feel the heat behind your eyes right now. “I think I sure as shit know more about it than you, so if I were in your position, I wouldn’t be throwin’ stones from your pretty little glass house, darlin’.”

 

Kankri’s eyes flash up between knife cuts, a sneer pressed deep into his features. “How long did you even know her for  _ really?” _

 

“You know,” you reply, “At this point in time, I really don’t think that’s any of your fucking business.”

 

He scoffs. That’s it - just - his lips peel back a moment, there is a very nasally snort, and he just keeps cutting. Judgmental as all fuck and totally invalidating; not that it’s a surprise. It is, however, really starting to  _ royally  _ piss you off. Kankri’s whole bit about having a chip on his shoulder already annoyed you when you thought you would never see him again; being forced to reassess your opinion, now that you will be spending however long in his house until Eridan shows up? It grates on you. Like a  _ lot. _ Particularly with how stupidly well-read this kid sounds whenever he opens his mouth.

 

“You know what I don’t get?” You say, gesturing between the two of you and then out to the porch. “A little while ago we were, like, actually really damn close to having an opportunity for an actual bonding moment.”

 

Kankri puffs out a low growl. “Lest we forget, that was before I found out you were drunk and that you had invaded a very personal space in this house.”

 

“See, except I can’t tell how much of this is you actually getting pissed, and what’s just you making up excuses not to interact with me.”

 

He stops cutting chicken just long enough to balk at you, very clearly insulted. “And what the  _ hell  _ do you mean by that?”

 

Your eyebrows go up, hand to your chest in a pointed gesture. “You think I can’t spot a defense mechanism from a mile off?”

 

Kankri actually starts to tremble a bit in his shoulders, voice getting high and sharp again. “Are you insinuating that I am  _ pretending  _ to be upset and then  _ weaponizing  _ your indiscretions?!”

 

Well, you wouldn’t have put it in so many fancy words, but if the shoe fits. Leaning in closer, you say, “I’m sure you’re as beat up about my going in your mom’s room as I was about finding out that she probably didn’t die in her fucking sleep.”

 

He falls silent, mouth drooping into a deep frown, the fire flashing from his eyes. He’s still holding a lot of tension in his body; both of you can smell the onions are on the verge of burning, but you have his attention, however bitter he may be.

 

“Look, I already said my piece about going against your dumb orders. Facts as I see ‘em right now is this: we both knew a fucking amazing woman, who is now gone forever, and I think it’d be mighty disingenuous to imply only one of us is fucked up about it.  _ And.  _ We’re both dealing with some shit we’re not exactly comfortable sharing with people who are happy with the parts God gave ‘em.” You shrug your shoulders, continuing: “But if you wanna hold me at arm’s length after an actual apology, and keep on like I’m nothin’ but an annoyance until Dan comes home, I guess that’s your fucking prerogative. It’s just kinda shitty of you and more than a little disappointing ‘cause here I was thinking you were gonna do right by her and be the smart one here. Technically, you’ve had  _ hours  _ to sit on it by now and you could’ve kicked me out already, if I’ve pissed you off so much. So why haven’t you?”

 

You see his fingers flexing around the handle of the knife as he wets his lips with a swift flick of his tongue. He purses them shut after, watching you quietly, nostrils shrinking and expanding to the rhythm of his breaths - obviously trying to keep himself calm. More than likely doing a few mental exercises to center himself. He seems the type, after all. Five A.M. jogs through the neighborhood and yoga and shit.

 

He finally turns around after a while, without a word, preoccupying himself with stirring the onions before they can get crispy. You have your arms extended to either side of you expectantly, but you suppose he’s just not ready to deliver. You drop them, deciding it is no longer worth your energy to pursue this conversation.

 

“Fine.” You grunt, with some finality, “You do what you want, kiddo.” You walk away, turning your eyes from the kitchen. “I’m gonna go sober up.”


End file.
